


Anatomy of a Prank

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, Humor, MWPP Era, Mixed Media, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-03
Updated: 2009-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step by step instructions for those wishing to emulate the incomparable Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anatomy of a Prank

  
_I solemnly swear I am up to no good_

 

 

 

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

"Potter! You're an arrogant, insufferable, gormless waste of space!"

James had fantasised about this quite often -- Lily Evans underneath him, with parted lips and flushed cheeks, her legs spread and her skirt rucked up just so -- the marked difference between then and now being that in his fantasies, Evans was rather less put out about the whole thing. Of course, in his fantasises, a lot more than his knee was pressed between her thighs, and he won that battle not with brute force, but with his wit, charm, and undeniable good looks. Heat did dust her perfect skin and her breathing did develop a pleasant hitch, because of his clever fingers and tongue.

Not because he'd stumbled over his own feet, dropped everything he bloody owned, stumbled again -- this time over his own rucksack -- and barrelled into her headlong, while roundly cursing the very air with the kind of blue language Sirius usually reserved for hostilities with his berk brother.

"You are unbelievable!" Evans continued, in a tone that suggested she very much wanted to peel him like a shrivelfig. "Not only do you lack common decency and a moral centre, you're also incapable of watching where you're going, proving once and for all that you've less good sense than God gave a goat!"

Here was rub: James had practically invented the Trip Jinx. He wasn't its true creator -- that honour went to one Barnabas Bottlesprout, a man whose tragic passing at the claws of an enraged Diricawl had been mourned by pranksters since sometime in the eleventh century -- but he was certainly the father of its modern application and use. He had taught it to duck, weave, change directions en route, and chase its intended target of six flights of stairs. Beyond that, he'd also been the mastermind behind some of the more epic Trip Jinx attacks, as evidenced by the sad case of Malecarius Rosier, who'd gone arse over tea kettle right into the lake. Or the Hallway Affair, which had resulted in a thirty-seven-person tailback at the foot of Ravenclaw Tower. Or last Wednesday, when James had aimed his wand at the sky and Nigel Nott had lost his footing while flying on his broom.

All of which only served to make his current predicament more embarrassing. Really, he bloody well should've seen it coming.

"Merlin's wrinkly toes, Potter!" Evans drove her sharp (but beautiful) elbow directly into James' spleen. "Get off me at once!"

James obliged with a sigh, and also with a rather loose interpretation of 'at once.' He paused long enough to give her rumpled shirt due consideration, as well as the thin stripe of smooth belly it framed. He let his eyes become acquainted with her navel, which earned him a sound smack in the head. His ankle hurt. A dull ache was beginning to settle in his knees, and they popped loudly as he heaved himself to his feet. He dared a quick glance at Evans' face; experience had taught him she was quite fetching when she was angry. Unfortunately for him -- and possibly his wedding tackle -- she had skipped over angry in favour of well and bloody furious. If looks could kill, Sirius would be offering a poignant and heartfelt eulogy while Remus and Peter wept into a stack of wee tea sandwiches and nameless birds hurled themselves from the castle's parapets in grief and despair.

He extended his hand, which promptly earned him another smack, this time on the knuckles.

"You've done enough damage, thank you very much," Evans snapped, glaring even more dangerously as she righted herself. "Darting around corners with no regard, knocking into people... you're a menace, Potter! An absolute menace!"

James quickly tucked away a smile. It was difficult not to puff up a bit, since menace was precisely what he'd been aiming at for the last six years, but right now, that was not the safest train of thought. Right now, that train of thought was liable to get him introduced to the business end of Evans' Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six.

"Oh, Evans," James began, going for abashed. He did a fairly good abashed. He privately thought his sheepish was much better than his abashed, but he'd done his sheepish for Evans nineteen times this week, and she apparently did not find it as brilliant as he did. "I'm really sorry." Her mouth twitched, and not in a good way. "I never meant to go banging into you like that, honestly. I was just walking along, and--"

She slowly lifted an eyebrow; as eyebrows went, it was rather expectant. His hesitation had been duly noted, but really, the truth would never do. She likely wouldn't believe that he'd fallen victim to something as obvious and ordinary as a Trip Jinx and, quite frankly, he wasn't in a hurry to admit it. Not now, with half of Hogwarts staring at him like Crups were jumping out of his nose, and not here -- just yesterday, he'd dressed a small gaggle of Hufflepuff firsties in pink feather boas with a gesture so discreet anyone looking would've thought he'd been scratching his ear.

"I just couldn't help myself," he finished, willing a faint blush to creep across his cheeks. And Sirius thought _he_ was the master. "I saw you there, from across the hall, shining the way you do, and I was overcome by your beauty." Her face was rapidly approaching the colour of her hair, but in for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "If you'd just give me a date, Evans. Just one. I swear, I'd never toss you on your lovely arse again."

"POTTER!"

The look on her face was priceless. It was also murderous, and with the strange brand of calm that often preceded mortal peril, James realised he was probably going to die. Her eyes narrowed into furious (but adorable) slits, and James quickly reassessed -- he was definitely going to die. Sirius had best start rehearsing his woe; Evans just needed to decide if she'd rather use her wand or kill him with her bare hands.

She took a determined step toward him, but quickly stopped short. She breathed deeply, and her face formed into a fair copy of the 'I'm counting to ten so I don't throttle you and dump your lifeless body in the lake' expression McGonagall wore whenever she was in James' general vicinity. James ignored this for the way Evans was straightening her tie, because he loved it when she pulled at her clothes. Her hands fluttered down to her skirt, smoothing over the disordered pleats, and James watched openly. The hem was turned up just above her left knee; her fingers caught in the funny little fold, and she freed them with an irritated flick of her wrist.

 _Of course_.

"Where do you think you're going!" she demanded, fumbling for her wand as James began to inch away. "I'm not through with you yet!"

"I'm sorry, I really am," he said hurriedly. "As much as I'd love to let you kill me, I've got to see a man about some bedsheets."

 

  


 

Peter pushed through the door with a pumpkin pasty mostly in his mouth and three horribly large books hard on his heels. The dormitory smelled strongly of socks and vaguely of wet dog, and after seven flights of stairs, it felt unreasonably warm. He paused at his trunk, letting his rucksack fall to the floor, and started unbuttoning his robes. The books waited impatiently at his elbow, snapping their covers as they jostled for attention. Bodily Fluids of Creatures Both Magical and Mundane banged off his shoulder twice in rapid succession; he sighed heavily and directed the lot to his bed, where they clattered into a pile without further ceremony.

Bloody Potions.

It had been a fairly good day. Granted, Quidditch practice had been cancelled on account of the weather, sending James into a state of high dudgeon that had lasted well past lunch, and Peter had nearly landed detention twice, because Sirius had hexed his quill to fart rude words each time McGonagall said swish or flick. On the other side of the Sickle, there were rumours of trifle for pudding. Fiona Thistlebottom had smiled at him during Divination, and he'd received a passing mark on his Charms essay, an essay he'd declared eleven inches of utter rubbish up until the moment he'd thrust it into Flitwick's waiting hands.

Yet, there was still Potions. In his second year, he'd begun to suspect Hogwarts taught the class purely to vex him. He'd been certain of it by his third, and he'd not revised his opinion since. Slughorn's walrus moustache framed an oily smile Peter did not like, and those smiles were rarely for Peter, anyway. He wasn't wealthy, famous, or ridiculously talented, and he wasn't related to anyone overly important, and unlike Wilfred Bones -- who'd avoided those same obstacles by dint of being the only Quidditch hero Hufflepuff had ever produced -- Peter was not the sporting type.

Sighing again, he settled himself on the edge of his trunk. He ignored its piteous creak, and began eating his pumpkin pasty in earnest.

"None for me, thanks," Remus said quietly. He was propped against a large pile of pillows, curled at the head of his bed with Defensive Magic for Intermediate Students open in his lap and a roll of parchment draped over his bent knees. "I'm quite all right."

"Good." Peter popped the last bit of pasty in his mouth and brushed crumbs to the floor without remorse. "I haven't brought you anything."

"Good," Remus countered, mostly to his parchment. Sirius was sprawled alongside him, snoring into what was very likely the Defence essay due tomorrow morning. It was on detection of Obfuscation Charms; Peter's was buried at the bottom of his rucksack and a good four inches short of the ten required. "I'm not obligated to ask about your puss, then."

Peter huffed, drumming his heels against his trunk. "I haven't got a puss. What do I care if Sluggy thinks there are sixteen known uses for Doxy piss?"

"How many have you got?" Remus asked. Peter held up nine fingers, and Remus shook his head. "That's barely half. Here, have a look at mine." He set Defensive Magic for Intermediate Students on Sirius' arse and rooted through the books and parchments surrounding him like a moat. A star chart was just visible under his Transfiguration text; since he'd dropped Divination last year, Peter suspected Sirius was bribing him to do his homework. Again. "Only, I don't know where I put it. Sirius' bed, maybe."

Peter's trunk groaned as he slid off; it rather sounded like a sigh of relief, and Peter smacked it with his wand. "Why is he in yours, anyway?"

"I don't know, really," Remus replied, shrugging. "He was here when I came in, and it was easier to budge him over than send him packing. And I certainly wasn't moving to his." He wrinkled his nose and poked Sirius' hip with his foot. Oblivious, Sirius continued to snore. "I'm not going near that mess until I know the house-elves aren't still refusing to wash his sheets."

Peter froze within spitting distance of Sirius' bed and peered between the mostly-open hangings. In the centre, a huddled mass of linens laid in wait. It rather looked like blankets, but it had been Peter's experience that blankets didn't growl.

"What did he do to them, anyway?" The blankets growled again, twitching slightly, and Peter bid a hasty retreat. "The house-elves, I mean."

"I've never asked. Knowing Sirius, I--"

Remus was interrupted by the door, which sprang open with the velocity of a rabid Bludger. James trundled through in its wake, shouldering it out of the way as it rebounded off the wall. Red-faced and dishevelled, he sputtered and gasped in a way that suggested he'd taken the stairs at a dead run, and his hair looked moments away from staging a coup. A strange gleam danced in his eyes and, deciding it was positively manic, Peter privately began compiling a list of the number and manner of detentions he would undoubtedly be serving in the near future.

"Well, you look a fright," Remus commented mildly. Sirius mumbled in what could've been agreement. "Been wooing again, have you?"

James disregarded this with two fingers and the sort of snort common to hippogriffs and McGonagall approaching a full strop. Remus swallowed a smile, his mouth twitching at the corners as he returned to his schoolwork, and James loudly cleared his throat. Peter slouched toward the safety of his own bed, doing his level best to avoid direct eye contact. The gleam had shifted into something that trumped manic in all categories; James' expression would not have been out of place on a Ministry wanted poster.

"Lads," James began grandly, "I have an idea."

Hefting his book, Remus turned a page. Sirius rolled onto his stomach and flopped his arm over the side of the bed.

"It's wonderful," James continued, gesturing like his hands had crossed paths with a rather sturdy _Tarantallegra_. "Best idea I've had in ages."

Somewhere, a cricket chirped.

"Come on, men. Hear me out. It's positively brilliant!"

Peter really didn't like the sound of that. James' definition of 'brilliant' was very different than the one printed in Wyvernshire's Wizarding English, in that James generally equated it with things like 'dangerous' and 'explosive.' Or 'grounds for expulsion.' Peter considered the detentions quietly queuing inside his head -- a list that already totalled five, and ranged anywhere between trophy polishing and degnoming the Forbidden Forest -- and added another three. He shuddered. The Hospital Wing had more bedpans than it knew what to do with; if James kept on, it would only be a matter of time before Peter was forced to face a stack down, armed with good intentions and a Muggle scrub brush one bristle from going bald.

"Lads?"

That was the killing stroke, that high and whiny tone better suited to a seven year-old girl who'd just dropped her ice lolly. Remus looked up, making a valiant attempt at what passed for his Prefect Face, and Peter silently wished him the best of luck. James wheedled like a champion; Evans was the only known exception. Also, Remus' Prefect Face wasn't very good. He clearly aimed for something as smooth and blank as the castle's leeward wall, and while he fancied it frightening -- and it was, to lost firsties and Hufflepuffs caught snogging in the Library -- he mostly looked put upon. Or constipated.

"Please?" James asked hopefully. Peter thought his lower lip might be quivering.

"Go on, then," Remus muttered, his Prefect Face folding like a Flobberworm under a stern glare. "Let's here it."

"Right." James grinned brightly and approached Remus' bed. "This is what we're -- huh." Realising he lacked Sirius' undivided attention, James pulled his wand and poked Sirius in the cheek. "Wake up, you lazy sod."

"Piss off," Sirius mumbled, mostly to one of Remus' pillows, but his bleary burr quickly ratcheted into a yelp as James traded his wand for a wet finger and applied it liberally to Sirius' ear. "Plonker." Delighted, James did it again, and Sirius kicked him in the shin. "Knobface." James gave it one more go, but Sirius dodged him at the last moment, and he caught Sirius in the nose. "Dirty rotten fuckstick."

James cackled like the madman Peter was fairly certain he was. Sirius leaned up on his elbows and groaned, glaring murderously at James, then slightly less murderously at Remus.

"Moony," Sirius said slowly, with the confused blink of someone who'd fallen from his broom and landed on his head. Repeatedly. "Where'd you come from?"

"Oh, don't mind me, you're no bother at all," Remus grumbled, flattening a parchment Sirius had wrinkled in his flailing. "It's my bed and that, but I'm just passing through."

Sirius sat up a bit more. "Your bed?" He peered suspiciously at his own; the hangings gave an ominous rustle. "How did that happen?"

"Well," James said, favouring Sirius with an arch smile, "Remus must have shagged you to sleep."

"Jealousy really doesn't suit you, James," Remus countered airily. "Besides, you've nothing to worry about. He screamed your name the entire time."

"I hate you both," Sirius declared, flashing a rude gesture to all and sundry as James and Remus dissolved into snickers. "And you," he added savagely, when he caught sight of Peter, who was laughing so hard he was pink-faced and gasping for air. Peter ducked just as one of Remus' books was hurled in his general direction without regard to incidentals like aim, and he buried his face in his hands. He was very nearly crying. "I hope you all die in a terrible, smelly Potions accident."

Remus snickered into his Defence essay. Peter sank down onto his trunk, despite its grunt of protest, and tried to breathe normally.

"All right," James said importantly. "Now that we are all here, or as here as we're ever going to be --" he glanced at Sirius "-- I must tell you about my idea."

"Yes, please." Peter did his best to steel himself. At this point, the detentions were unavoidable; he might as well learn the cause, before his imaginary list started falling out of his ears.

James paused for dramatic effect, which caused Sirius to call him a ponce, and spread his hands wide. "Apple pie beds."

A peculiar silence followed, during which James preened with the haughty air of a unicorn being approached by a complete slapper and the others pointedly looked at anything and everything but him. The storm picked up outside, wind shrieking and rain rattling against the windows, and a soft hiss sounded from the general area of Sirius' bed.

"Well?" James demanded.

"Sorry," Remus began, in what was very likely his Prefect Voice. It lacked a true air of authority, and Peter studied the shadows Sirius' broom cast on the clothes-littered carpet. "I think you said apple pie beds."

"That's precisely what I said! Apple pie beds," James insisted. "It came to me when I was... when she, uh... while I was, um -- never mind that. It's brilliant, and you can't tell me it's not."

"Well, it's interesting," Remus ventured.

"It's daft, is what it is," Sirius complained. He rubbed irritably at his face; the side that had been pressed to his schoolwork was bright red, and three or four mirrored sentences slanted up toward his temple. "It's complete rubbish. Firstie stuff."

"Not if we do it properly," James argued hotly, spots of colour blooming on his cheeks. "Not if we--"

"Everyone," Peter cut in, his mouth running off without stopping to ask permission from his brain. James had that effect on him, sometimes. "We'll have to do everyone at once."

"What do you mean, everyone?" Sirius asked. He leaned in a bit, and a thoughtful expression crept over his face. "The professors, and that?"

Remus cocked his head to the side, his teeth creasing his lower lip. "And the hospital wing?"

"Yes," Peter said, despite the bedpans looming large in his mind. "Everyone."

"Of course," James said, with a smile that made a good argument for him being criminally insane. "Everyone."

 

  


 

"Well?" Peter asked anxiously, just as he had every two minutes for the last twenty. He dry-washed his hands as he peered at James, looking quite like a girl about to find out if her boyfriend had indeed got her up the duff. "How many is it?"

James ignored this latest breech in his concentration by slouching closer to his parchment. His quill twitched. Peter sighed nervously, and went back to whatever it was he'd been doing before, which seemed to be studying the contents of his rucksack with extreme interest.

In Peter's defence -- not that Sirius defended Peter all that often; he preferred to leave that sort of chivalrous rubbish to Remus -- the number of beds inside the castle was rather important to the task at hand, and presently, it was a question without an answer. Counting the beds would never work, given the amount of time it would take, and the margin of error involved when asking Peter to play nicely with numbers greater than ten, not to mention that wretched boy-repelling hex that guarded the girls' dormitories. Sirius had thought about counting the dots on the Map, but that idea had also failed to take flight, since there was no way to make the little buggers stand still. Remus had spent the better part of yesterday afternoon abusing his Prefect privileges in the name of locating a complete roster of the student body, but if such a thing existed outside the morass of Albus Dumbledore's twinkly mind, it hadn't been left where Remus or his badge could find it.

James was currently trying to solve the problem, but Sirius rather doubted his chances, mainly because he was going about it all wrong. From what Sirius had gathered in the last excruciatingly long hour, James hoped to find the answer through a curious combination of rough estimations fuelled by mad fancies and complex Arithmancy equations based on numbers pulled squarely out of his arse. He also seemed to be sweating a lot. Sirius chewed his thumbnail and did his level best not to think about the last time James had waved off the details: a damp and somewhat squelchy night during which Peter had got stranded up a tree, Remus had developed bumps on his arms the same size and shape as the knobbly bits on a Mimbulus Mimbletonia, and Sirius had been sucked into a rambling conversation with Benjy Fenwick -- about starting a Shuntbumps league, of all ruddy things -- while he'd waited for James to fetch the dung beetles.

That Shuntbumps conversation had wasted a full forty minutes of Sirius' life, and James never had turned up.

The Library carried on in its usual fashion, persisting in a brand of quiet Sirius found bloody unnatural. Prolonged exposure to silence and stillness made him restless, and his hands itched for his wand or his broom or his secret stash of Stinkpellets. For anything, at this point; he didn't much care. Hectate Hettledown's arse would do nicely, or the soft curve of Margery Applewaite's hip. Of course, Hectate was no longer speaking to him, for reasons known only to her, and as a seventh-year Ravenclaw, Margery was in Ancient Runes, and would be until lunch. Pince wasn't helping the situation; he resented the suspicious glower she was casting in his general direction, mainly because he hadn't done anything to deserve it.

Not today, anyway.

Grinding his teeth, Sirius suppressed the urge to scream. Or fake a seizure. Pomfrey had a face like the back end of a Clabbert, but she was pleasant enough, and she harboured a soft spot for Remus that was visible from the top of the Astronomy Tower. Remus found it horribly embarrassing -- of course, Remus was also embarrassed by fart cushions, naked house-elves, and that portrait of flirty, half-dressed nymphs in the Transfiguration corridor -- but Sirius thought it was brilliant, because it also extended to his friends. A bit of eye twitching and a spot of drool around the mouth could have him eating ginger biscuits and chocolate for dinner, and sleeping in a bed that didn't want to eat him alive.

Bloody house-elves.

Sirius glanced at James, and his eye very nearly did twitch. James was hunched over, his hair bristling out at several improbable angles and his nose almost pressed to his parchment. He sat up suddenly, then mumbled something under his breath and made a violent notation in his margin. Peter just watched him, blinking at James slowly with one hand lost inside his rucksack, and Remus was no use; he seemed content to do his blessed schoolwork until such time as James discovered what was apparently Hogwarts best kept secret. Sirius turned his attention back to Nifty Spells for the Newly-Married Witch and their first -- and possibly bigger -- problem.

The thing was, it bloody well looked like the spell they needed didn't exist. If it did, the inventor had neglected to record it in any of the books to which Sirius presently had access. He was willing to bet he could find something useful in Curses, Cantrips, and Calumny: A Compleat Compendium of the Contemporary Charlatan, but Snivellus would pull a date for the next Hogsmeade weekend before Sirius got his hands on that. McGonagall had confiscated the school's only copy in their third year, after James taught the Squid some ghastly ditty about Kneazle races, and upon its return to the Library, Pince had declared it would remain off the shelves until _those four_ finished school. Possibly until their children finished school, or their childrens' children, until the seventh generation of the seventh generation.

Yawning, Sirius flicked his wand. " _Accio_ \--"

"Sirius," Remus warned quietly.

"What?" Sirius demanded. Nosy git hadn't even looked up from his book. Pince's beady eyes narrowed, suggesting his tone was not at all suitable for the Library, but Sirius ignored her in favour of Jeanette Everard, whose side profile he subjected to a slightly wistful look. If those knickers had been pink, James would've owed him two Knuts. "I wasn't doing anything."

Remus hummed tonelessly in reply and continued to fill his parchment with waffle. The measured _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of his quill made Sirius' skin crawl.

"James?" Peter asked, despite the fact he was crowding his two minutes by a good thirty-six seconds. "How many is it?"

"It's, you know... I just, um... well, I think -- bugger," James spat, squinting down at his work. His tiny, illegible writing scrawled drunkenly across the page, forming into something that resembled the pattern on the robes Dumbledore tended to wear on Fridays. "It's... well, it's a lot of sodding beds."

"A lot?" Sirius asked, with a magnificent snort. Pince leaned over her desk, ready to swoop down like the great, bespectacled bat she likely morphed into a sundown. "You utter knob, we've been here hours, and all you've got is 'there's a lot of sodding beds?'"

"Well, what about you?" James asked, pulling at his hair like it had done him a personal wrong. "Did you find anything?"

Sirius scratched the back of his neck. "Not really."

"Oh, not really," James muttered. "Hours, he says, and he's had his hand down his trousers the whole time."

"Plank."

"Wanker."

"Arsenut."

"Children," Remus said lightly. He still hadn't looked up from his book. "Sirius, what did you find?"

"Well, there's this, but I don't know if it'll work," Sirius said, sliding Nifty Spells for the Newly-Married Witch across the table. "It's for making up beds."

"Properly?" Peter asked, mostly to the inside of his rucksack.

"Yeah, I guess," Sirius said, as James scanned the page with a frown. Waving James off, he flipped back to the previous chapter. "There's also this, for folding laundry."

James favoured Sirius with a look reminiscent of a goblin who thought he'd been short-changed. "Gormless, prancing tosspot." He attacked his hair again, with the same homicidal intent. "Folding laundry, I ask you."

"You got something better?" Remus asked.

"All right, all right," James conceded. "Mark them both. We'll try them when we go back -- bloody hell, Peter! What are you doing?"

Peter, who was prodding the contents of his rucksack with his wand, froze and looked up at James guiltily. "Nothing."

"Nothing? What've you got in there, then?" Sirius demanded. The way Peter had been acting the last hour, it ought to be the Holy Grail. "More nothing?"

"Chocolate Frogs," Peter admitted. Fishing about inside his rucksack, he produced one as evidence. "My sister sent them to me," he explained, ducking his head. His nose twitched. "Five pounds of them."

"Five pounds?" James asked, in what was possibly the furthest thing from his indoor voice. A distinctly unimpressed rustle sounded from the desk Pince used as a perch, and across the aisle, a small group of Ravenclaws were staring openly. "Five _whole_ pounds?"

"James, please," Remus said, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks. "You'll upset Madam Pince."

"Oh, bugger Pince on a hired broomstick," Sirius hissed. If there was five pounds of chocolate to be had, Pince was the least of his concerns. And right now, Sirius figured they should be the least of hers; Stoatley and McKinnnon had just retired to the Restricted Section -- in a manner that lacked any form of subtlety, in Sirius' opinion -- and when those two got anywhere near each other, it came down to partial nudity and an enthusiastic exchange of tongues. Sirius gave it ten minutes before an entire shelf of dusty tomes was irreparably ruined. "There's chocolate, and Peter is hoarding."

"Wormtail?" James asked slowly. "Have you forgotten the terms of the treaty?"

Peter's nose twitched. "Which treaty? The one about wanking and Silencing Charms and putting a tie on the doorknob when you're, you know... entertaining?"

"No, that's the Secrecy of Goods and Services Act," Sirius said, waving his hand. "He means the one about curtains, furry animals, storing monkshood at room temperature, and that broom cupboard down in Slytherin that only opens on odd-numbered days of the month."

"Fartparcels," James grumbled. "I mean the Profit and Loss Agreement of 1973, the one that goes..." he nudged Remus with his elbow. "How does it go, Moony?"

"Whereby, all punishments meted, including but not limited to detentions, banishments, and letters written home, will be served by the accused, without regard to innocence or guilt, lest a fellow Marauder betray one of his comrades in arms," Remus recited, and if he didn't stop reading that book, Sirius was going to beat him about the face and head with it. "Furthermore, all spoils earned, given, or otherwise gained shall be shared equally and without reservation, with the exception of Marmite, tinned fish, invitations to Slughorn's office, and the favours of Lily Evans."

Sirius chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I thought there was something in there about Snape's underpants."

"Codicil Three, Sections Sixteen and Seventeen," Remus said. "And, if it is noted that Severus Snape, hereafter known as Snivellus, happens to--"

"Right." James reached for Peter's rucksack. "Under the treaty, there is no hoarding."

"I'm not hoarding, honestly," Peter insisted. "They only just came, at breakfast." Sighing, he pulled out three frogs and passed them around. "I've been trying to figure out what I'm going to do with them."

"Share, obviously," James mumbled, as he stuffed his frog in his mouth. One of the legs kicked feebly at his chin.

"Hey, Remus, what's that one spell?" Peter asked. "You know, the one that copies things?"

"The Geminio Curse," Remus replied slowly. "Why? Fancy ten pounds?" He laughed and shook his head. "It won't work that way. The duplicates won't be edible."

"Oh." Peter shrugged. "I was just wondering."

 

  


 

Remus would never admit it out loud, but he really didn't mind Prefect meetings.

They tended to run a bit on the boring side, and the Prefect's lounge was uncommonly stuffy, but in all honesty, Remus could easily think of worse ways to spend the afternoon. Double Potions while partnered with Snape came to mind, as did listening to Sirius sing in the shower. He'd also happily forgo being trapped in a tiny broom cupboard after Peter had eaten steak and kidney pie, or having James' regrettably naked thighs in his hands, because Evans -- in a somewhat justifiable fit of pique -- had hexed his trousers with a positively scorching infestation of Chizpurfles.

Granted, Malecarius Rosier was a puffed up swot in a nice set of robes -- a lack of personality that had not improved with James pouring the lake on his head, or whatever had happened there -- but Remus didn't exactly find that surprising. Head Boys were generally cut from the same inflated, self-important cloth, and never mind that Rosier was in Slytherin. After sharing a dormitory with James and Sirius for nearly six years, Remus was mostly immune to things like posturing and entitlement. Besides, Prefect meetings were quiet. Madness was not allowed to roam free, hurtling toward a messy and untimely demise while dressed in little more than a grotty pair of pants.

Remus appreciated a little normalcy now and then. He still had nightmares about the Chizpurfles.

"Lupin!"

He also had nightmares about that voice, due to the frequency in which it haunted James' dreams, and James' utter inability to cast a decent Silencing Charm.

"Afternoon, Evans," Remus said, slowing as she fell into step beside him. Faced with two Prefects from an opposing House, a small knot of lower form Slytherins scattered from where they'd congregated near a statue of Angbar the Abhorrent, doing their level best to look innocent. "Are you going my way, or are you just using me to escape Sluggy?"

"Both," Evans replied cheerfully. "I normally don't mind, but he's been awfully grabby, today." She linked their arms, leading Remus down the hall as Slughorn's jovial baritone nipped at their heels. "He's having one of his luncheons on Saturday, but it's Hogsmeade this weekend."

"What do you lot get up to, anyway?" Remus asked. He'd never been invited to one of Slughorn's parties, but if James could be believed, he wasn't missing much.

"Nothing special, really," Evans admitted. "He feeds us candied pineapple and Butterbeer and talks about a good deal of nothing."

Remus laughed. "And you'd pass that up for an afternoon of avoiding James by hiding in Scrivenshafts?"

"Don't get me started on Potter," Evans said, her voice souring at the edges. "Besides, if the storm doesn't let up, I'll be hiding in Scrivenshafts, just the same." She wrinkled her nose as they passed a window at the bottom of the stairs. "Dreadful weather," she noted, and Remus could only agree. The sky was roughly the colour of the castle walls, and the rain looked like it was striving toward the heartfelt goal of reaching Biblical proportions by morning. "I hear they cancelled Quidditch practice, again."

"Yes." Remus hated these ruddy stairs; with the full moon less than a week off, a slow ache was beginning to spread through his bones. "Much to my misery and despair."

She gave him an odd look. "But you don't -- oh. Of course. I suppose Potter and Black haven't been fit to live with."

"Not recently, no."

"Ever, you mean," she said tartly. "I can't imagine what they get up to in that lair of theirs. I'm sure I don't want to."

Remus considered some of the events that had occurred this week --

(Sirius running starkers out of the loo with an angry and purple hand print charmed across his arse, an event for which he'd had no logical explanation; James-as-a-stag poking his fat, antlered head between Remus' bed hangings at bollocks o'clock in the morning for no apparent reason, other than to offer Remus one of Peter's dirty magazines by mouth; Peter having a glorious row with a bloody house-elf while sopping wet and wearing nothing but the smallest towel Remus had ever seen, over a pile of broom twigs, three mismatched socks, and what might've been a peanut butter, banana, raisin, and Marmite sandwich.)

\-- and it was only Tuesday. He quickly decided Evans had the right of it; she really didn't want to know.

"I don't understand how you put up with them," she continued, as they reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. "I can't say I understand _why_ , either."

"I drew the short straw. Dumbledore would insist at least one person in each dormitory know how to read."

"They're just so... so... despicable." Evans nodded firmly, her hands planted on her hips. Remus wondered if women learned that gesture from their mothers, or if it was just natural instinct. "They're despicable, and--"

"Bowtruckle," Remus said shortly, at a cough the Fat Lady had likely thought was discreet. "They needed a social secretary. At least, that's what they said. I should've known better than to answer an advert out of the _Quibbler_."

She lifted her chin and stalked off without a word. Remus rubbed his hand over his face and started for his dormitory, a trip that involved more ruddy stairs.

On a normal day, when Remus walked into the room, he would be greeted by a large amount of nothing. James and Sirius would be at Quidditch practice, unless McGonagall had forced them to clear their schedules in the name of righteousness and detention, and Peter would be asleep amidst a hopelessly large pile of school work, his face pressed to his book and his place marked by his pointy, little nose.

Today, however, was not a normal day. Remus had already been aware of this on some level, but he'd also been choosing to ignore it. Unfortunately for him, as soon as he pushed through the door, the truth smacked him square in the face.

Peter tumbled to the floor, yelling his head off as he went, with Sirius' ankle in one hand and two wands clutched tightly in the other. James, who was somehow shrieking like a girl and cursing like a marooned and drunken pirate at precisely the same time, tackled Peter quite mercilessly and pinned him down by clamping his hand to the arm not tangled up in Sirius' legs and pressing his knee just north of his groin. Sirius attacked at once, his limbs flailing in all directions as he dove at Peter and fell lengthwise across James' back. Peter bellowed like a Nogtail in heat and loosed a full-armed slap that glanced off James' ear before catching Sirius' hip. Hissing, James made a desperate grab for Peter's hair; this overbalanced Sirius and, with a noise that suggested he'd been a banshee in a former life, he crashed loudly to the ground. He righted himself and clamoured over Peter's head as best he could with half his foot in James' mouth, shouting _smelly nancing fuck of a wanksack_ to no one in particular as he shoved James into the wardrobe.

The three of them were -- for reasons known only to themselves, and reasons on which Remus did not care to speculate -- wearing nothing but their pants.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Remus asked quietly.

They promptly began shouting at once. Remus closed his eyes against the waved arms and tossed hair and flared nostrils, but it didn't really help. He could still hear them. There were a few enraged squawks, a couple of irritated huffs, and the unmistakable sound of someone being kicked soundly in the behind. After that, the yelling reached a fever pitch; he caught a few choice phrases, including _complete maniac_ and _total ruddy mutiny_ and a rather vehement _sodding pervert just wanted to see me bollocks naked_.

"McGonagall sends her regards," Remus commented, as the din began to die down. "Particularly to you, Sirius. She trusts you won't be late for tonight's detention." Sirius nodded; his pants hung off his hips crookedly, and a reddish bruise was blooming on his side in the exact size and shape of Peter's fist. " _I_ trust you'll locate your trousers before then."

"It wasn't my fault!" Sirius insisted.

James made a noise like a trodden-on cat. "The bloody hell it wasn't! That spell was your idea!"

"It was not _my_ idea!"

"You marked it in the book!"

"You told me to mark it in the book!" Sirius shouted. "I never said it'd work. I told you it probably wouldn't!" He ran his hand through his hair roughly, treatment which, in its current state, it did not need or deserve. "I told him, Remus. It's a cleaning spell, and cleaning spells only work for birds and house-elves. They're not meant for blokes. Do you know a married bloke who folds his own laundry?"

"Oh, for -- you lot did this with a bloody laundry spell? Remus asked, snorting as he tried desperately not to laugh. James' eyes went flinty and murderous, and Remus bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Let's see, then."

With more grumbling than Remus thought was strictly necessary, the others straightened themselves out and slouched toward the spare bed. It had belonged to Aramis Pyke until their second year, when his cousin gave him spattergroit for Christmas and he failed to return. The room would've been larger without it, but they'd never bothered to mention it to anyone. It was as good a place as any for all the rubbish that would've otherwise ended up on the floor, and Sirius slept in it occasionally, when his own bed was being disagreeable and James wasn't in the mood for his snoring.

Currently, it was completely barren, stripped of both its blankets and hangings. The top sheet was savage in its whiteness; it lay perfectly flat across the bed, and had hospital corners so sharp the angles made Remus' eyes cross.

"You do lovely work," Remus said airily, brushing his hand over the sheet. "You lot will never want for a summer job."

"Arsehole," James muttered, as he wrestled his wand away from Peter. "That was the first spell." Turning, he tore back the sheet until it was mostly puddled on the floor and aimed his wand. " _Vestiso Tersusius_."

After a soft puff of yellowish smoke, the sheet wound and wrapped itself around the bed with alarming alacrity and single-mindedness.

"We've tried it fifty times," James explained shortly. His glasses slipped down his nose and he righted them with a sigh. "Doesn't matter what we do, it only makes up the bed."

"Properly," Peter added, peering around the bedpost like a stick of wood six inches around was willing and able to hide twelve stone of boy. Four ragged scratches stretched away from his navel; Remus placed the blame on James' fingernails, which were in sore need of cutting. "It won't --" he made a circular and somewhat floppy gesture that would've prompted Sirius to make a dirty joke, if he wasn't busy picking carpet out of his teeth " -- fold the sheet up, and that."

Remus looked from the bed to James, then to Sirius and Peter, then back to James, and then back to the bed. "How does this explain the nudity?"

"It doesn't. That was the other spell, the sodding laundry spell." Sirius jabbed his wand at the bed. " _Induvio Plicos_!"

The bed did not deign to reply. Remus' clothes, on the other hand, rapidly took leave of their senses and began departing his body in the swiftest and most efficient manner possible. He grabbed quickly at his shirt, attempting to hold it closed, but the buttons continued to slip through the holes. His collar flapped against his neck, and he heard the pained rasp of a yanked-on zip. He rescued his wand from his pocket just as his robes peeled away from his shoulders and, growling a _Finite Incantatem_ , he narrowly escaped being strangled by his own tie.

Peter was still cuddled against the bedpost. James and Sirius seemed somewhat smug.

"Well," Remus said slowly, "that was different."

"There's something wrong with it," Sirius insisted. "I'm telling you, it's meant for birds." He pointed to James' bed, where three sets of perfectly folded school uniforms sat in a prim line along the foot. "All it did was take our clothes and fold them up!"

Remus glanced around the room, pausing at the pile of rubbish that had been swept from Pyke's bed, a tangle of books, shoes, inkwells, Quidditch rags, owl treats, and balled-up parchment. Peter's trunk was open, and a quick look showed the contents to be of a similar vein: scrolls, quills, a box of Dungbombs, a ridiculously large bag of Ice Mice.

No clothes.

With that, Remus started to laugh. It was the violent, dangerous sort of laugh common to rabid Erklings and men who had run well and truly mad, and he did it wholeheartedly and without remorse. He laughed until his sides began to ache and his breath came short, until his jaw became possessed with an involuntary twitch and tears began prickling at the corners of his eyes. He laughed for what felt like _hours_ , until he was slouched on the floor, and he was positively gasping when James listened to the voices that so obviously plagued his brain and toed Remus sharply in the arse.

"You cackling tosspot," James said. "What's so bloody funny?"

"Tuesday," Remus managed, through a sudden encore of sniggers. "It's Tuesday. The house-elves do laundry on Wednesday." Shaking, he pushed himself upright, and leaned against James' legs. "There aren't any clothes in this room -- clothes to fold -- so the spell took yours."

"That's no good!" Sirius complained, moving to Remus' other side. James shoved at Remus' shoulder, and Remus bumped his head on Sirius' knobby knee. "That's no good at all! Two spells, and neither work. One would make Pomfrey wet her knickers, and the other just wants to see my arse!"

Peter coughed. When James and Sirius didn't look over, he coughed again. "I was thinking," he said slowly. "What about a gift-wrapping spell? Those bend the paper however you want."

"We're trying to short-sheet the beds, Peter, not do them up in ribbons and bows," James said. He paused then, his eyebrows racing toward his hairline. "Although--"

"Maybe if we change the object," Sirius cut in, waving James off. "Wrapping spells are meant to append differently, for different kinds of paper, and that."

"You know," Remus said, with a slow smile, "it just might work."

 

  


 

"Now that we are all here," Nigel Nott said, with more gravity than Regulus thought was strictly necessary, "I will call this meeting to order."

Regulus snorted quietly and did his best to ignore the dust quietly creeping inside his nose. Filthy things, broom cupboards were, and scarcely enough room to turn around. Regulus would never understand why his brother frequented them, but that was to be expected, as there was very little about Sirius that made any kind of sense. Presently, Regulus was standing a good deal closer to Cecil Wilkes than anyone in their right mind would care to be, given that Wilkes had about as much body hair as the average Quintaped and the unpleasant habit of smelling like pickled turnips. A dull ache was spreading through Regulus' shoulders; space constraints were forcing him to hold his arms at an awkward angle, lest he accidentally touch something both mouldy and alarming.

An ugly, pockmarked bust in the corner was giving Regulus a healthy dose of the Evil Eye, which was a fairly impressive feat, considering that both had been removed. By force, if the kitchen knife wedged into one of the gouged sockets was any indication.

"Connors?" Nott asked, addressing a spotty third-year who bore an unfortunate souvenir from a recent confrontation with Potter. Pomfrey would insist that the only known remedy for the Cauliflower-Ears Curse was patience and time; thankfully, Connors had taken to wearing his hair long while he waited. "Have you got it?"

"Yes." After a bit of anxious shuffling, Connors produced a small parchment from the depths of his robes. "I've got it."

"Good," Nott said importantly. "We will now hear the minutes from the last meeting."

Regulus was breathless with anticipation. Or possibly the dust.

"Our last--"

Fortunately, the door creaked open before Connors could really get going, ushering in a whiff of fresh air that was quickly followed by Severus, who slouched inside with his wand in one hand and his lank hair hanging in his eyes. He was wearing his favourite scowl, but Regulus thought it looked rather sharp around the edges.

"All right, there?" Regulus asked, as Severus shut the door and leaned back against it with a sigh.

"Double Potions."

"Ah. Lupin?"

"Pettigrew," Severus muttered darkly. "I think I still have fluxweed in my teeth."

"Not to worry," Nott said, clearing his throat. "You haven't missed much. Connors was just reading the minutes from Sunday."

"Right." Connors swallowed nervously. "Our last meeting was called to order at seven, Nigel Nott presiding, and--"

Regulus flicked his wand and Connors' parchment dissolved into a cloud of ash. "Never mind that rubbish."

"It's not rubbish!" Nott insisted, in the sort of fussy and exacting voice that suggested he stored his school books in alphabetical order and drew up complicated, colour-coded revising schedules in his spare time. Regulus often thought the Sorting Hat was completely off its tree; Nott made a fantastic case in point. "This is very serious business."

"Hardly," Regulus countered. "There is nothing serious about colluding in a broom cupboard."

Wilkes came to life with a grunt. "Is that what your brother says? He's always getting--"

" _Silencio_ ," Regulus replied, because that conversation wasn't going anywhere he cared to visit. Especially since Wilkes likely didn't know what 'colluding' actually meant. If there was anything Regulus wished to discuss less than Sirius' disrespect for his family's ideals or his obvious emotional issues, it was his rather disturbing tendency to snog dimwitted Hufflepuffs in dark corners. Frowning sharply, Regulus rounded on Nott. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

"I, um... I don't... you -- we can't, now," Nott mumbled, blinking at Regulus with wide eyes. He darted a quick glance at Wilkes, who was working his mouth with his hands clapped around his throat, and Regulus waved him off. It wasn't like Wilkes would've had anything useful to contribute. "I don't know where to start."

Regulus sighed. "I'm sure you'll think of something, if you try."

Nott promptly began to fidget. Behind him, Connors looked ready to wet himself, and Regulus was pointedly reminded of why he didn't participate in group activities that weren't Quidditch. He didn't play well with others, and he had very little patience for neurotic behaviour. Regulus looked over at Severus, hoping he could get some assistance from the only other person in the room with at least half a brain, but Severus was avoiding the sorry situation by examining his fingernails with extreme interest.

"The minutes are gone," Nott said finally.

"Do we really need them?" Regulus asked. This was the last time he accepted an invitation to a secret society with the morning post. He should've known something was wrong when Hesperus dropped the note directly into his porridge. "We're plotting petty revenge, not campaigning for the Wizengamot."

"Perhaps we could skip to the part where we accomplish something," Severus ventured quietly.

"Oh, yes... that might... we will start with crimes," Nott said, nodding slowly. "Last week, Potter caused me to fall from my broom."

Having seen Nott fly at Quidditch trials, Regulus doubted he needed any help in that department, but he bit back the comment rising in his throat. If Nott wanted to place blame, Regulus wasn't going to throw away a perfectly good excuse to hex Potter with a ghastly case of pustules.

"We all know about Connors' ears," Nott continued. Connors tugged at his hair self-consciously. "He also Charmed Avery's pet Kneazle pink, and he -- Snape, what did he do to you, again? Spots or Boils?"

"Black gave me the spots," Severus replied tonelessly, as Wilkes made the sort of rasping, burbling noise that brought drowning Graphorns to mind. Regulus idly decided he should've made the spell a bit stronger. "Potter hexed my Transfiguration book with a parchment-eating fungus."

Nott favoured Regulus with a wary but somewhat considering look. "What about you, then? Any trouble with Potter?"

"Not particularly," Regulus murmured, exchanging a sidelong glance with Severus. There had been a fairly disquieting incident a few days ago, but he wasn't in the mood to discuss it, and since Severus had managed to sort him out before anyone noticed, Regulus also didn't see the point. "Potter mostly leaves me alone."

"Your brother doesn't," Nott pointed out needlessly.

Regulus didn't feel that deserved a response.

"Black caused ferns to grow out of Rosier's nose and mouth," Severus offered. "He also caused the Slytherin Quidditch team to come down with athlete's foot before the season had even started."

"He tripped me the other day," Connors admitted softly. "It might've been Lupin, but Black was the one laughing about it."

"Yes." Nott nodded his head. "On Monday, Lupin hexed Wilkes with laryngitis."

"How unfortunate," Regulus commented, his mouth twitching as he recalled the somewhat murderous look on Wilkes' blessedly silent face. If he didn't dislike Lupin on general principle, he might have thanked him for granting the Slytherin common room a full day without Wilkes' pointless braying.

"Well," Nott said, pausing thoughtfully. Regulus hoped he didn't strain himself. "What about Pettigrew?"

Snape's usual scowl twisted into something approaching a sneer. "What about him?"

"Harmless," Wilkes croaked, finding his voice at last. He glowered at Regulus, and Regulus smiled at him over the tip of his wand. "Not too bright, neither."

"You'd be surprised," Regulus murmured. Pettigrew wasn't flashy or quick or overly clever, but he was the reason Regulus had taken to checking his shoes for insects and vermin every morning, which certainly said something. "He can follow orders, if nothing else."

There was an extended silence, dotted by the occasional whir from the derelict clock lurking near the door. Wilkes continued to glower, Connors chewed at his lip, and Nott divided his time between picking lint from his robes and frowning at the floor. Severus was engrossed in his fingernails again, but once Regulus began tapping his foot, he looked up with a loud and irritated sigh.

"Well?" Severus demanded. "What are we going to do about it?"

"Oh," Nott replied, surprise dancing across his face. Connors' shoulders developed a defeated slump. "We haven't got that far yet."

Really, an invitation to a secret society had seemed like a good idea at the time. Retribution, and that. He'd also been promised tea and biscuits.

"Regulus," Severus whispered, leaning close and curling his fingers in Regulus' sleeve. "Gryffindor is practising right now, but they might come in early, if the rain keeps on." He almost smiled, his mouth quirking just slightly. "They'll be tired."

"Why are we still here, then?" Regulus asked, aiming his wand. " _Alohomora_."

The door did not appear to hear him.

"It's Wednesday," Severus prompted.

"Right. Of course. _Abiertus_."

A good pound of dust followed Regulus out, but the hallway smelled a right sight better than Wilkes.

  


 

There had been Quidditch today, and it had been good.

Sod the rain. It hadn't really let up -- not in a proper sense, anyway -- but McGonagall had finally given over. As far as reasons went, she had cited concern for Gryffindor's upcoming match against Ravenclaw, which James had nearly taken as a personal slight. Remus had said she was probably just tired of listening to James and Sirius whinge on about their brooms like the complete girls they obviously were, but Remus was guilty of enjoying things like books and quiet and Prefect meetings, so Remus was clearly daft.

Brilliant, Quidditch was. James could've done with better weather; it'd been a bit too wet to try the Blavastsky Roll he'd read about last week, but he wasn't going to complain. After three horrifically long days, he'd finally got to fly. James loved to fly. In his opinion, few things were better than the wind in his hair, the crisp (albeit soggy) air against his face, and five feet of Spanish Oak trapped between his legs.

"What about this one?" Peter asked.

"Hmm?" James gave the bit of parchment in front of him a half-hearted poke. He'd been soaked clean through when he came back upstairs, and after a change of clothes he'd still felt a chill. He was now stretched out on his bed, covered in his own blankets plus whatever he'd been able to pilfer from Remus and Peter, and the sudden warmth was making him lazy. "What about what?"

"Here," Peter said. He uncurled himself from the nest of pillows he'd built at James' headboard and pointed to Handy Spells for a Happy Yuletide. "Will wrap any gift. Any size, any type of paper."

James aimed his wand. " _Plicia Membriana_." The test parchment twitched despondently. James sighed and turned his attention to the spell Peter was pointing at, squinting as he tried to read upside-down. "Maybe, if it'll let us switch the objects to bedsheets. Can you direct the wrapping, or does it do whatever it wants?"

"Doesn't really say," Peter mumbled, around the splintered remains of a Sugar Quill. "It's labelled 'quick and easy.'"

"I don't like the sound of that," James said, shaking his head. "It might want to do the thinking, and we need something that'll take orders." Peter's Sugar Quill succumbed to its fate with a spectacularly crunchy death-rattle, and James' stomach rumbled. "You got any more of those?"

"Nope." Peter hid his face behind Charms for a Truly Charming Christmas. "Didn't Sirius go for food?"

"He did, but he's been gone hours," James replied. Quidditch had left Sirius sopping as well; he'd offered to make the kitchen run, in hope that the walk would warm him up. "If it turns out he's left me starving so he can snog some Hufflepuff in the Owlery, I'll set his ruddy hair on fire."

"I'll never understand that."

"What, Hufflepuffs? Not much to understand, really."

"No. I mean the Owlery," Peter clarified, in a curiously muffled voice. If he'd lied about those Sugar Quills, James would beat him bloody. "Hundreds of places to hide in this castle, and he gets caught up there with Elspeth Downs."

"I've heard Downs isn't the fussy sort," James said, chewing his lip. "Might be why she shagged Sirius in the first place."

"The Owlery smells like bird droppings. I just don't see the romance, is all."

"This from the bloke who takes his dates to the Greenhouses."

Peter lowered his book until his pointy nose poked over the spine. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, if you fancy Venomous Tentacula in your trousers."

"That's only Greenhouse Five," Peter said. His book sagged a bit more, and James took note of the sugary evidence powdered around his mouth. "The plants in Two and Three mostly keep their hands to themselves."

"Right." James aimed his wand again. " _Plicas Membrianas_." Better, but not much. His stomach was still churning sourly. "I really am hungry. I swear, I could eat a whole dragon."

"Raw or cooked?"

"Does it matter?"

Peter sighed and turned a page. "You want me to go? I could do with a sandwich, or some of those chipolatas we had at breakfast." He flipped through a few more pages, then shoved the book at James. "How about this one?" He jabbed his finger at a spell near the bottom. "I don't know why you sent Sirius. The house-elves still have it out for him."

"What did he do to them, anyway?" James asked. He peered at the book; from that angle it could've been written in Gobbledegook. "He never did tell me."

"He won't say." Peter shrugged, one shoulder hitching toward his ear. "At least, he won't tell me. He'd probably tell Remus, but Remus is afraid to ask."

James nodded slowly. "Huh. Remus must be brighter than I thought."

"Well, I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

James whipped his head around; Remus was hanging in the doorway with a vaguely murderous look on his face. He was also in a right state. Amidst his rumpled robes, his loose tie, and his mostly untucked shirt, his Prefect badge glinted in a manner that was both incongruous and offended on general principle. Wherever he had been, he'd stopped to collect Sirius along the way, and Sirius didn't look much better. James was immediately troubled by two things: Sirius had apparently neglected to bring the food along, and Remus was covered in the type of large, brown spots that came from rolling in Thestral pats.

"I saw Flitwick earlier," Remus growled, like that had anything to do with the price of lacewing flies. "He wants to know what you did to the fountain in the courtyard, for future reference."

"Nothing," James insisted, just as Sirius said, "I don't know anything about those bubbles."

"Right."

James ran his hand over his face, but it didn't help. Remus was still covered in spots. "Well? What the fuck happened to you?"

"What, this?" Remus asked, holding out his hand. A brownish smudge darkened the centre of his palm, and to James' horror, he licked it. "You'll have that, when you find yourself at the business end of a stampede, and your only means of escape is blocked because this -- " he flapped a hand at Sirius " -- was attempting, and apparently failing, to murder his brother in the middle of the hallway."

Sirius pushed past Remus and stalked to James' bed. "I was winning," he muttered darkly." His nose was bloody, his lip was split, and he sported a large bruise on his temple. "He never would've kneed me in the bollocks, not if Remus hadn't been standing on my arm."

"Regulus?" James asked, with a sympathetic wince. "In the bollocks?"

"Yes," Sirius replied, in the tight voice of someone who's dick was still in his throat. "And in the face, but this berk -- " he saluted Remus with two fingers " -- he's the one who knocked me in the head."

This called for revenge, of course. Sweet, painful, and perfect revenge. Cramming a relatively clean shirt under Sirius' nose, James considered the different ways in which he could pay Regulus back by morning. A chair hexed to the arse was an undisputed classic, as was jinxing the skin a disturbingly girly colour. Lavender, for example, would look positively ghastly with a green and silver tie.

"It wasn't my fault," Remus insisted. He shrugged out of his dirty robes and tossed them on Pyke's bed. "You rather look alike."

Sirius made the sort of noise often associated with angered tea kettles. "We do not!"

"You'd pass for twins, if Regulus would grow an inch," Remus argued. He bent to untie his shoes; James thought he mumbled something about inbreeding as he descended, and family trees with very short roots. "It certainly didn't help," he continued, once he'd straightened, "that you were rolling around like Jarveys trying to mate, and never mind the bloody army of rabid Chocolate Frogs."

Unable to parse that sentence, James simply stared at Remus, hoping an in-depth study would provide additional clues. Remus didn't say anything else, but his eyes narrowed in a rather pointed fashion. James followed the trajectory of his gaze and found an incredibly pink and twitchy Peter squirming at the end of it.

"Nice work, by the way, on the Geminio Curse," Remus said finally, and Peter became very interested in his own hands. "They split into _fours_. McGonagall nearly went spare."

A deep blush was moving over Peter's cheeks; it looked as if it meant to go full bore until it reached his ears. "Fours?"

"Yes, and they were rather well-trained. Wonderful formations, really." Remus stepped out of his trousers and began unbuttoning his shirt. "They never broke rank, and the hammer and anvil was a particularly good show." His mouth twitched like he was trying to swallow a smile. "Shame Slughorn can't waddle any faster. He got caught right in the middle."

"Slughorn? Oh. I was after Mulciber," Peter admitted, his face crumpling. "He called me a fat lump the other day, and I think he meant to hex me, but James came along. Then he said James was a speccy git and ran off after Avery."

Revenge was no longer an option, it was a moral imperative. James had found a Food Poisoning Hex in the Restricted Section the other night; he'd been saving it as a Valentine's Day present for Snape, but the current situation called for drastic and immediate action. Needs must, and all that.

"Peter," James said, wondering if he could curse all of Slytherin at dinner without McGonagall cottoning on. "Why didn't you say something?"

"We would've been late for Ancient Runes," Peter replied reasonably. "Besides, I really needed to get rid of those frogs." James was completely speechless. "I'll just nip down to the kitchens. The usual, then? No onions, sardines, olives, mustard, kippers, livers, satsumas, or Marmite."

James shook his head as Peter slipped out the door. "Can you believe him?"

"I never have," Sirius said, curling up next to James. He pulled Handy Spells for a Happy Yuletide into his lap and poked the cut on his lip with his tongue. "I hope he brings me some of those tarts we had at pudding. I'd have brought some, but Remus tried to concuss me."

"No, you wouldn't have," Remus countered, pulling on a pair of pyjama bottoms. "You'd have got tripe, because the house-elves don't like you, and your brother tried to concuss you. He just used my fist to do it."

" _Plico Membriano_ ," James said, smacking the test parchment with his wand. It almost folded the right way. Almost, but not quite. "Why'd you fight, then?"

"Why shouldn't we fight?" Sirius tucked his hair behind his ears, wincing as his fingers tripped over his bruise. "Crotch-rotted pureblood ponce. He called me a blood traitor."

"The horror," Remus muttered, to the book-filled depths of his trunk.

"He had some shit to say about you, as well," Sirius argued, throwing a pillow at Remus' upturned arse. "And it wasn't very nice."

"Oh, I'll just bet it wasn't. The usual song and dance, then?" Remus asked. "I'm cheating at Defence, abusing my Prefecture to win the House Cup, and shagging you and James blind every chance I get?" He tossed the pillow at Sirius' bed, where it disappeared inside a flurry of disgruntled linens. "Stop me when it starts to sound familiar."

James snorted. "Regulus is clearly a nutter. I wouldn't let you anywhere near my arse."

"He got himself warmed up with that, but then he decided to have a go at your family." Sirius closed Handy Spells for a Happy Yuletide with a snap and set it aside. "Kept giving out about how you're poor, and your dad's a Muggle, and that, and I wasn't going to let him. He doesn't get to talk about you lot."

James divided a glance between the two; Remus had slapped on the vaguely stoic face he favoured when one of them defended his honour -- the ridiculous swot -- and judging by the tight set of Sirius' jaw, he was ready to pick an enthusiastic row with the next thing that moved. Silence crept into the room -- a stiff, heavy thing suitable for libraries and Potions exams and graveyards wallowing in more shadows and cobwebs than strictly necessary -- and James filled it with more spells.

" _Plicius Membrianius_!"

"Well?" Remus asked. He hovered at James' bedpost, peering at James like he was one of the vile things Slughorn kept pickled in jars. "Any luck?"

"I've got one I think might work. It's meant to wrap a present, any way you want," James explained, nudging the test parchment with his wand. "I've been practising on this. Once I get the fold right, we can see what happens when we change the object to bedsheets."

"Oh." Sirius blinked at James like an owl. "We might have a problem. I thought of it just as Regulus was trying to claw my eyes out."

"Such an odd family," Remus murmured.

James smacked Remus with the test parchment. "Go on, Sirius."

"How are we going to set it? I mean, there's -- what did you decide, then? A lot of bloody beds? We can't hex each one. That will take days. We can't get to the professors' quarters, anyway. Or the girls' dormitories."

"Right," James agreed. "Gryffindor girls' has that hex on the stairs."

"They all do. All the girls' dormitories," Sirius said, picking at a loose thread on one of the pillows. "Same stupid hex."

"Oh?" Remus asked slowly. "How do you know that?"

Sirius favoured Remus with a filthy smile. "I just do, all right?"

"Well," James began, ignoring them both. "We could cast it on the people, instead. Set ourselves up outside some place common, like the Great Hall, and hit them as they walk out." He paused, mulling over his options. "If we nest it inside a Tracking Charm, it'll follow them back to their dorms."

"Too risky. We might be seen, and it'll take too long," Remus pointed out, shaking his head. "Nesting it inside a Tracking Charm could work, but we need to fix it so it casts itself."

"What if we attach it to one of those defensive spells put on doors?" Sirius asked, with an odd boxy gesture that, to the casual observer, would've looked nothing like a door, at all. "You know, the kind that make alarms go off, and that -- like Sluggy has on his supply cupboards. We could cast it outside the common rooms, or something." He waved his hands over his head. "Set it so it triggers as people walk by."

"Yes, that's it!" James said. "Just like I did the Squid. I didn't hex it, you know, I hexed part of the Lake."

The door inched open, emitting the kind of pained shriek that suggested the hinges had rusted beyond repair, and James tried not to think about the Great and Rather Embarrassing Waterfall Miscalculation of Halloween 1974. Sirius sighed and gingerly prodded his nose; James suspected he was also not thinking about the very same thing. Peter eventually slouched into the room, his arms laden with a large selection of foodstuffs, and a bulging sack of the potato persuasion trundling right behind him. It toppled into Peter's legs when he stopped, and an apple rolled under Pyke's bed. Peter's hair was mussed. He looked vaguely dazed, and a reddish bruise the size of a Sickle was badly hidden behind his ear.

"What happened to you?" James demanded.

"Myrna Bones," Peter said sheepishly. He ducked his head and dumped the stash between James and Sirius' bent knees. "I ran into her going past the Great Hall, and she asked for a kiss."

Remus arched an eyebrow. "Just one?"

"I'd rather not talk about it." Peter's face was roughly the colour of a beet. "She's a nice girl. I really couldn't say no."

"Which one is Bones?" James asked. "The Hufflepuff with the legs?"

"She's in Ravenclaw," Peter corrected. "The one with the -- " he made a slightly suggestive gesture, but it lost something in translation due to the sandwich in his hand " -- you know, the breasts."

"That reminds me, I have a date later," Sirius said. "Which one of you tossers is going to help me fix my face?"

 

  


 

There was something to be said for sneaking around the castle in the middle of the afternoon.

Not that Peter was afraid of the dark, because he wasn't. At least, not any more. He had been, until the middle of third year when, due to an incident involving a dead Lobalug, a cauldron of Bubotuber pus, a dented Probity-Probe, and a Bat-Bogey Hex gone horribly awry, Peter had found himself stranded in Hogsmeade on what had quickly become a cold and stormy night. After sleeping on the edge of the Forbidden Forest during the year's first proper deluge, unarmed save for what had not actually been an Erumpent horn, and with nothing to keep him warm but standard-issue school robes and a burning desire to drub Remus with the nearest blunt object, Peter had decided he wasn't going to let a few shadows at the end of a corridor bother him more than absolutely necessary.

He was still slightly terrified of Mrs Norris, but that couldn't be helped. That was instinct. As he'd explained to James at least three hundred and forty-two times, Wormtail had definite ideas on that score.

It wasn't really afternoon, any more. Dinner was almost at hand, the promise of it hinted in the form of delicious smells that had Peter's stomach rumbling, but the last rays of sunlight were still peeking in through the castle windows. That was certainly different, since a bulk of the more epic Marauder escapades had taken place under the cover of darkness. They'd also taken place under the cover of James' cloak -- which, after James' altercation with the Squid, had a habit of smelling like pickled cabbage -- but the less said about slouching toward the Slytherin dungeons with Sirius' hair in his mouth and Remus' arse continually bumping his hand and while tucked in James' armpit, the better.

"This way," James said, in a voice so loud Peter was sure it could've been heard by someone in the Hogs Head's bog. "Quickly, now."

They passed another window, and Peter frowned at the weak, yellowish square of light etched into the flagstones. He shouldn't complain. He wasn't tripping blindly over his own feet. He didn't have a wand poking him on one side and someone's elbow battering him on the other, and he wasn't being forced to endure the stench of overly-ripe sauerkraut. However, he was standing outside the Great Hall at half ruddy five, and other people could see him. They could also see the company he was keeping, and right now, that probably wasn't a good idea.

Remus was business as usual; he mostly looked tired, except for a slight curl to his mouth that suggested he might possibly regret this in the morning, but he took on a similar face whenever he sneaked out to meet Katie MacGregor in the Library, so it was difficult to tell. Sirius seemed to be aiming for nonchalant, but he'd fallen so far overboard in the relaxed body and loose limbs department that he only succeeded in looking well and truly drunk. That being said, he was doing a right sight better than James; James was twitching like baby Acromantulas were foraging for food inside his trousers, a situation Peter had learned from experience would only get worse the longer chaos loomed.

Quite frankly, they couldn't have looked guiltier if they tried.

"McGonagall's up ahead," Peter warned quietly, "and she's watching!"

"That's all right," Sirius said, glancing around in a way that should've cost him House points for a general lack of subtlety. "She's mad for my arse."

James cuffed him for that, sparking a scuffle that only served to draw more attention in their direction. Narrowing her eyes, McGonagall descended with the speed and tenacity of a professional seeker whose team was down by one hundred forty. Peter's mental list of detentions -- which now totalled eight, and was quite wretched in scope -- quickly jumped to eleven, and his skin prickled with the threat of an oncoming cold sweat. Sirius lurched toward him, evading the hand James seemed to think would look better around his neck and, sighing like an older sibling in desperate need of a holiday, Remus grabbed James by the arm before he and Sirius abandoned any sort of pretence and started rolling around on the floor.

"Arseholes," Remus muttered. The curl to his mouth was now a bit more pronounced; Peter highly doubted he'd ever looked at Katie MacGregor like that. "Bloody fucking useless knobs, can't even behave yourselves for -- evening, Professor."

"Evening, Mister Lupin." Her eyes narrowed further as she drew near, and she favoured James and Sirius with the sort of frown usually reserved for large piles of dragon dung. "Dinner does not start for almost an hour. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Oh, we were just leaving," Peter said quickly. "Yes, um." McGonagall's face could've been carved from stone. "Leaving," he added desperately, his voice ratcheting into a pained squeak as James trod forcefully on his foot. Eyes watering, he pressed on, driven by the thought of having to clean the Slytherin Quidditch showers with a toothbrush. Possibly his own toothbrush. "Upstairs, uh... back to the common room."

"Leaving?" McGonagall asked, in that tone that made Peter's hair stand on end, the one that could crack the castle's foundation stones if she really put her back into it. "But you've only just arrived."

Remus cleared his throat. "Yes, well." He paused, fishing about for his Prefect Face, and Peter winced. "We've got studying to do, and that," he said finally. "Exams coming. Must revise. So, we'll just--"

"Professor," Sirius drawled, tilting his head until his hair fell artfully into his eyes. "I must say, you look ravishing this evening." His expression was so reminiscent of a love-struck first-year that Peter was somewhat surprised when he failed to swoon. "Are those new robes?"

"No, Mister Black, they are not," McGonagall replied tartly. Sirius offered her one of his trademark smiles, the type girls from the Gobstones Club ate up like treacle, but McGonagall was evidently made of sterner stuff than Elspeth Downs and Margery Applewaite. "They are, in fact, the exact same robes I wore in class this afternoon." Her lips thinned in a rather threatening fashion. "Clearly, I was mistaken when I believed you were awake!"

"Oh, don't mind him," James said quickly. Remus still held him by the arm; when McGonagall's attention shifted, James grinned winningly and stopped attempting to break Remus' fingers. "We mostly don't. He's prone to mad fancies. The whole family is daft, you know."

"Enough!" McGonagall snapped, punctuating the word with one of the unintelligible Scottish noises she tended to cultivate in the back of her throat. "As I said not five minutes ago, dinner does not start for another hour, which means, you have no reason to be here." Her mouth settled into a disapproving frown. "Find something productive to do, and elsewhere, or I will find you something to do. Perhaps in Filch's office."

"Yes, Professor," Remus said quietly, then: "Ten points." McGonagall slowly lifted an eyebrow, and Remus began to look hunted. "Each."

James promptly began choking on his own tongue. Sirius opened his mouth, his lips curving into the moue that generally preceded a tantrum of epic proportions, but Peter took a page from James' book and stomped squarely on Sirius' toes. Judging by the look on McGonagall's face and the vein pulsing madly on her forehead, now was not the time for Hurricane Black to blow into town. They needed to leave and they needed to do it quickly, before McGonagall made it another forty points, or decided they should skip dinner in favour of mucking out the Owlery.

"Well?" she demanded. "GO!"

Peter went, and he did so without regard to incidentals like direction or his intended destination. Or if the others, who clearly lacked the good sense God gave a parsnip, had bothered to follow. Without regard to much of anything, really, aside from the somewhat pressing notion that it was time to abandon ship. He simply fled, adopting a pace just shy of a full run and hurrying down the first corridor he happened across. A few feet in, he recognised it as a secondary route to Divination, mostly unused because it was the first place the Bloody Baron went looking for Peeves, and because it stank rather inexplicably of ripe sausages.

He turned again -- speeding past two decapitated suits of armour, a frieze of Aurleanus Gringott at the peace talks that had ended the goblin rebellion of 1638, and a disturbingly animate tapestry -- and turned again. The hallway was empty, save for a broom cupboard on his left and a smaller, darker passage on his right, its archway flanked by a sculpture of a rearing centaur and a portrait of a small, cross-eyed man wearing a sour expression and an unfortunate wig. He paused, taking stock of his surroundings -- as well as the sudden change in the wind; the air now smelled less like stale pork and more like incense -- and realised he was already halfway to the North Tower.

It wasn't the worst place to be, all things considered, but it wasn't exactly the best, either. It had been a trying day so far -- what with one thing or another, the Transfiguration exam he'd almost certainly failed, the fifteen minutes he'd spent trapped with Sirius in Moaning Myrtle's loo, and Snape attempting to hex him with exploding boils on three separate occasions -- and the last thing he needed was an altercation with Professor Ogleby. Peter supposed she was nice enough, but she had a curiously red nose, spoke in cryptic metaphors Peter didn't always understand, and the endless stream of predictions she offered him often left much to be desired. As far as she was concerned, if he wasn't meant to wake up dead, he should, at the very least, expect severe bodily harm, and likely before breakfast.

He backtracked, rounded the last corner he'd taken, and walked right into Remus.

"There you are," Remus said. He still looked a bit hunted. "I thought we lost you."

"I thought I lost me," Peter admitted. "I didn't really watch where I was going. What about the others?"

Remus scowled. "Oh, they're coming."

Two shadows appeared at the other end of the hallway, stretched long and thin by the sputtering torches, and they eventually proved to be James and Sirius, advancing at a pace suitable for a funeral procession. James' hair looked like birds had been nesting in it. He had his hand fisted in Sirius' sleeve, and he was muttering in a way that could only be considered mutinous.

"Twenty points!" James shouted, in lieu of a proper greeting. Sirius, in what might have been a Hogwarts record, was completely bloody speechless.

"Fighting!" Remus countered, punching wildly at the air. "Outside the Great Hall!" He was positively growling, and Peter took a quick step back. "And in front of McGonagall, while you were at it!"

Sirius folded his arms; Peter could hear his teeth grinding. "You didn't have to."

"Of course I had to," Remus snarled. "If I hadn't, McGonagall would've, and you bloody well know it would've been worse." His face was rapidly approaching the colour of his tie. "Go on, then, if you want to be a girl's blouse about it."

An extremely uncomfortable silence curled around them, during which James and Sirius seethed, Remus frowned like he was flirting with the idea of a double murder and, out of a concern for his general health and safety, Peter pointedly avoided looking at the lot. Over James' shoulder, the wall boasted a triptych depicting the erection of Hogwarts -- the Founders standing in what rather looked like a sheep field; the Founders watching as a handful of giants laid out the first stones; the Founders shaking hands outside an early incarnation of the front entrance. Peter studied it with extreme interest and tried not to dwell on the incense.

"Well," James said finally. "We'd best get on with it, then."

"Get on with what?" Remus asked.

James' mouth dropped open, and he waved his arms over his head like an absolute madman. "The bloody beds, you git."

"Oh, we're still doing that?"

"Of course we are, and we have to do it now," James said, in a tone that suggested the fate of the world rested on the next fifteen minutes of his life. "If we don't, we'll have to wait another week. We've Quidditch practice all day tomorrow, and it's Hogsmeade on Saturday," he explained, ticking each off on his fingers. "Sunday's no good, because people are in and out of their sodding rooms all day, and Monday's the moon." His eyes darted around the corridor, landing on everything but Remus. "You're bloody well useless for three days after, and I'd rather not leave you out."

Remus smiled nastily. "Can't manage your mischief without me?"

"I don't want to, you complete fucking prat!" James said shrilly, and Peter grimaced. Ogleby would be along any minute now, swooping in like some beveiled carrion bird to explain the omens and portents formed by the pattern in which James' voice was bouncing off the walls. "It's no good, having fun when you're up moaning in the hospital wing."

James paused for a moment, blinking like the last part of that sentence had dropped out of his mouth unannounced, then chanced a wary, sideways glance at Sirius, but Sirius, in what was probably another Hogwarts record, took the high road. He only rolled his eyes a little, and he nodded instead of calling James an utter girl. Apparently heartened, James pressed on.

"It's not right."

Remus flushed pink to the ears and became very engrossed in his own shoes. "Best if we split up now. Otherwise, this will be over before it starts, and we'll land in detention, either way."

"Right." Sirius brushed by Remus and James and seized Peter by the arm. "Let's go, then, before they start snogging."

Sighing, James reached over and cuffed Sirius in the shoulder. Peter braced himself for the fistfight he was fairly certain would follow, but Sirius just shrugged, pulled his wand, and hexed James' glasses an alarming shade of pink.

"If we're all through," Remus said wearily. "What's the plan?"

"Moony, you'll come with me, since Sirius is gagging to get Peter alone." James barely managed to duck in time; Sirius' retaliatory _Rictusempra_ sailed past his ear and into a portrait. "They've got Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and the hospital wing." Behind him, Umbar the Unfortunate was quickly dissolving into a twitching, giggling heap. "We'll take Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and the staff room, and we'll meet back in the common room, ten minutes before dinner."

"Wait," Peter said. "What if people go back upstairs? Won't that upset the spell we're putting on the doors?"

Remus shook his head. "It shouldn't. It's an Anti-Theft Jinx. It's meant to track people coming in, and ignore people going out."

"Are we ready, then?" Sirius asked.

"Yes," James said, then -- after his glasses politely ignored his seventh _Finite Incantatem_ : "No! Fix my spectacles, you prat!"

"They're quite fetching," Remus offered, looking very much like it was killing him not to snort.

Sirius smiled and twirled his wand between his fingers. "They really are, and they're about to match your skirt."

 

  


 

"James, please," Remus said desperately. "You look like that demented bird Sirius calls an owl."

Mephistopheles _was_ an extraordinarily ghastly creature. It was entirely black, save for its beady orange-red eyes, and it rather smelled like it couldn't be bothered to clean its feathers. Its hoot was more akin to a growl, it seemed to delight in drawing blood, and it occasionally gifted Sirius with partially-devoured rodents, a habit most everyone found revolting. James didn't much care, as long as they didn't end up in his shoes, but Peter -- for obvious reasons -- shuddered like a girl every single time and declared it a crime of truly heinous proportions.

"Stop it!"

James paused and realised he was once again trying to view his own backside by twisting his head around and peering over his shoulder. He couldn't help it, and really, he was completely justified. Remus continued down the hall without him, and James did his best to follow, craning his neck as he went. _Almost_. He stretched even further, pain prickling at the top of his spine, then a little bit more -- _almost, almost_ \-- but at the last possible moment, the back of his body got away from him, and he stumbled around in pursuit of his own rear pockets with the same lack of balance and grace that plagued Padfoot whenever he chased his tail.

"James!"

"Sorry." James stooped to retrieve his robes, which he'd managed to drop, trample into the flagstones, _and_ tangle around his legs. "Only, I can't see."

"Of course you can't. That's just how your body is made," Remus pointed out, in the tone he generally reserved for firsties wanting a look at the Forbidden Forest. "Leave off, before you tumble down some stairs. I'm pants at Healing Charms. If you break something, you'll need the hospital wing, and Sirius and Peter will be most put out if you bugger those beds ahead of schedule."

"Bugger Sirius," James muttered darkly. "Is it still pink?"

Sirius could be a bloody-minded bastard when the mood struck, and he had a skill with Transfiguration that anyone with a lick of sense would find terrifying, at least on some level. Admittedly, it had been a neat bit of magic, but that didn't mean James appreciated it being on the receiving end of it. Through a combined effort, partially fuelled by some of the obscenities James saved for special occasions, James and Remus had mostly but things to rights. James was no longer wearing a violently pink skirt, but sadly, and much to James' general dismay, his trousers had stubbornly retained a distinctly reddish hue, an affliction that was still rather noticeable from the knees up.

"Prongs, you're a mate, but I'm not looking at your arse on purpose."

James found that somewhat unfair. Granted, James wasn't in a hurry to look at Remus' backside, and if Remus had been in James' current predicament, James would've probably volunteered Peter for the job of having a gander at things, but that was beside the point. The last time they'd passed a mirror, James' arse had rather favoured an apple, and that was not on. He had a sudden urge to jinx Remus was spots. Perhaps multi-coloured spots.

"You just looked at my arse five minutes ago!"

"Against my better judgement," Remus noted, with a smirk that suggested he was laughing at James on the inside. "And what a joyous experience it was."

"Knob," James snapped. Multi-coloured spots that sang the school song, maybe. During Potions exams, and for two solid hours on Thursday afternoons. "Wankstain."

"I mean, Evans found it particularly amusing."

James huffed loudly. He also found that somewhat unfair, and it wasn't as if he'd planned things that way. The middle of the Charms corridor had probably been an unwise choice, but in his own defence, there'd been more important things on his mind. Like the sodding pink skirt. And the draught wafting around his bollocks, because -- in a true testament to the depths of Sirius' perversion -- the sodding pink skirt had barely covered his arse.

At the time, he hadn't exactly been thinking of Evans. Nor had he expected her to come waltzing around the corner, in the company of that ravening pack of brainless birds she called friends.

"Piss off."

Remus' mouth twitched. "The look on her face was priceless."

James closed his eyes, but it didn't really help. Remus disappeared, but he was quickly replaced by a clear vision of what had easily been the most embarrassing moment in James' life. Much worse, in James' opinion, than that wretched business with the tartan knickers, or when Snape had hexed his skin silver and his hair green, or the time he'd woken up bollocks naked on the Quidditch pitch just as the Hufflepuff team was filing out for practice. Of all the things James hoped never to do again, one item topped the list: staring Evans square in the face while he was backed up against a wall, and while Remus knelt in front of him, with one hand braced on his hip and the other fisted in his sodding pink skirt.

And never mind that she'd arrived just in time to hear him say _hurry, Moony_ and _please_.

"I hate you."

"Right."

At Evan's incredibly arch smile, James' dignity had leapt directly out the window, and he had the feeling it had taken any romantic progress he'd made in the last three years right along for the ride. The direction and shape of her lifted eyebrows were now permanently etched in his heart-broken mind, and Eglantine Banks' chortle -- which was exceedingly manly, he decided, and not without malice -- still echoed rather painfully in his ears.

"I really hate you."

"I'm sure you do," Remus said lightly. "Which is why you're insisting we do this now, rather than wait until Monday, when -- how did you put it, then?" He chuckled quietly as they reached the end of the corridor. "When I'll be 'up moaning in the hospital wing,' I believe."

James narrowed his eyes. "I really, really hate you, and I hope MacGregor gives you a galloping case of knob-rot." The multi-coloured spots were past due, really, and the singing part was now a certainty. It was also possible they would explode on contact. "For the record, this is why I never say nice things to you."

"You never bring me flowers, either, or take me out for a fancy dinner, but I don't complain," Remus said woefully. "Besides, you never say nice things to me because Sirius calls you a poof and says you're mad for my arse."

"Clearly, Sirius is mad for _my_ arse," James groused.

Remus stopped as they reached an intersection, peering down the different corridors as if he couldn't decide which route to take. James gave him a pointed nudge, but he shrugged James off, tapping his wand against his thigh and mumbling under his breath. He stared for what bloody well felt like hours, until James -- who didn't understand what the problem was; it wasn't like Hufflepuff had moved house since the last time they'd been down that way -- grabbed Remus' sleeve and herded him toward the left.

"I mean," James continued, still pulling Remus along, "that skirt was positively indecent."

Remus snorted, sounding not unlike an Erumpent with a head cold. "Yes, because you're often concerned with decency."

"Go on, then. Laugh," James said savagely. "When he does you up in lacy knickers, don't come whinging on to me. And he will, I'm sure. He's probably mad for your arse, too."

"You're daft, is what you are," Remus commented. "Too many Bludgers to the head." They were closer to the kitchens than James wanted to be; the house-elves' love for Remus was only surpassed by their utter adoration of Peter, and if they met up with one now, they'd never get away. Not without a full picnic basket, or a haversack bulging with root vegetables. "Anyway, there's nothing spectacular about my arse."

"Well, he clearly wants under my robes," James said, with an air of finality, "and he sleeps in your bed an awful lot."

"Only when you won't have him."

"He snores like a Hippogriff."

"I'll give you that," Remus conceded slowly. "Although... it's not so bad, if you put a pillow over his face." His thoughtful expression quickly gave way to a wicked smile. "Besides, if he's wheezing in my ear, I can't hear you wank."

James suddenly felt uncomfortably hot. "When have you heard me wank?"

"Every night this week," Remus replied happily. "Brightest wizard in our year, my left ball. If your life depended on your Silencing Charms, I'd be standing over your grave."

"Did I mention I hate you?"

Wrinkling his nose, Remus scrutinised the corridor that led to Hufflepuff. "Once or twice, yes."

"Detest. Despise."

"Abhor?" Remus ventured, smiling. "Loathe?"

"That, too."

"I'll try not to -- and that's when Cuthbert the Cantankerous returned to his village," Remus said loudly, as two Hufflepuff girls materialised out of ruddy nowhere. He pointed to a portrait hanging near James' elbow, and James pasted on an attentive face. "He travelled for many years, you see, looking for the hag who'd cursed his male line."

"Cursed," James repeated, giving the girls the once-over. The short, spotty one ducked her head and blushed an alarming shade of purple, but the taller one offered Remus a keen smile. "You don't say."

"Rather unfortunate business, really. Hammer-toes and pattern baldness in the shape of a trident," Remus continued. "He hoped if he could repay the hag for the offence his great-grandfather had committed, he could marry his sweetheart in peace. Not that it mattered, of course. She eloped with his cousin just a few weeks after he set out."

"Dreadful." The girls disappeared down the hallway that lead toward the Great Hall, and James sighed heavily. "Clear."

"Ye dun tole it wrong," the portrait advised sharply.

Remus pursed his lips. "Terribly sorry."

"Woz me brudder she run off wiv, the thievin' harpy. She took the gold I'd saved wiv her, an' me best cow."

"My condolences," Remus muttered, rounding on James. "We should probably get on with it, if you want to be back in Gryffindor before dinner. We're already horribly behind schedule."

"All right," James agreed, putting a good six feet between himself and Cuthbert the Cantankerous. Portraits usually didn't tattle, but James rather didn't like that fellow's attitude. "About here, then?"

Remus silently considered the walls, ceiling, and floor in turn. "A bit closer, I think."

"Here?" James took two steps forward and one to the side, then narrowed his eyes at the painting of a sleeping badger that guarded Hufflepuff's door. It didn't move or talk, but that didn't mean it wasn't a spy. "Good?"

"Perfect."

James pulled his wand, watching as Remus set the security spell that would act as a trigger for the entire prank. It was horribly complicated, worse than the charm Sirius had used to make the Map talk, and James quickly lost track of the swish and sweep of Remus' hand. Remus was terrifying in his own right; his knack for Defence paralleled Sirius' ability with Transfiguration, the difference being that Remus had to be convinced to use his powers for evil, whereas Sirius' penchant for deviance was practically second nature.

"Almost done," Remus said quietly. Faint, bluish beams washed over the corridor, glittering as they bent into the cracks and corners. "Now."

James aimed for a point just over Remus' head, casting a Tracking Charm he was very familiar with. He'd used it on Remus in their second year, when he and Sirius had wanted to know why Remus vanished every month. He'd set it to report to his Potions textbook, and when the spidery outline of the Shrieking Shack had crawled across the inside cover, it had sparked the idea that eventually brought on the Map. A larger, fussier version had been required for that, something strong enough to linger on the castle's front doors indefinitely. He was using something similar now, but it was a bit weaker, and he bent it to his needs by omitting the part that made it funnel the gather information onto paper.

The Tracking Charm's red light curled around the security spell and formed into a soft, purple glow.

" _Vestisas Plicasempra_!"

The remaining traces were vaguely brown, and Remus studied the different lines and whorls as they faded into the stones.

"Come on," James said, dragging Remus away by the arm. For someone who professed almost no desire to get up to no good, he had a terrible habit of ogling his own handiwork. "We'd best be off."

"Right."

James smiled, because it bloody well looked like they were going to get away with it. The bit with Evans and the skirt still rankled, nagging at him like an itch he couldn't scratch, but all was only partially lost. So far, the prank had gone off all right. They'd knocked out two out of three, and James figured they'd get Gryffindor sorted without a hitch. After the nightmare that had developed at the staff room -- a hallway that garnered a fair bit of traffic, no place to cast the spells but on the bloody door itself, Flitwick's tendency to wander aimlessly -- James was fairly certain they could deal with just about anything.

Quite pleased with his own cleverness, James basked in the warm and buttery glow that came from a somewhat dastardly deed well done.

Unfortunately, his basking stint was rudely cut short by Remus, who'd used James' lapse in attention to put himself in the lead. Only, and in direct conflict with the very definition of the word, Remus didn't go much of anywhere. In fact, he didn't go anywhere at all. Remus rather abruptly stopped walking, which caused James to crash into his back. He staggered into a statue of a very fat wizard armed with a bow and arrow; it grumbled, its stony jowls quaking, and smacked James with its quiver. The size and scope of James' cleverness escaped him, and he deflated with a sigh.

"Go on, then!"

Remus did not deign to reply. He'd once again allowed himself to be confused by something as mundane as an intersection, and was staring at the floor in a way that suggested he didn't understand its function.

"Moony?"

"Oh." Remus considered the corridor to their left, peering at the walls like they were inscribed with the runic alphabet of a foreign tongue. "Right."

"Merlin's saggy balls!" James snapped. "We're going back to Gryffindor, not plotting an underground route to Ireland!" Remus blinked at James slowly; James wondered if whatever Remus had found so captivating on the walls had somehow been relocated to his forehead. "We made a map of the school -- you bloody well _drew_ the map of the school! If you can't find your way home by now, I don't know what to do with you."

"It's not that," Remus said slowly. He made a frantic, somewhat helpless gesture. "I'm trying to decide where I'd be if I was McGonagall."

The next full minute of James' life was clouded by a rather disquieting vision of Remus dressed in a prim bun, pearl earrings, and a jauntily placed tartan hat. On Remus' face, McGonagall's perpetually thinned mouth opened with the singular purpose of informing James that he'd been overheard wanking every night this week, and James shoved the image away in horror.

"I'd rather not run into her right now, is all," Remus explained.

James opened his mouth, but the resulting noise fell somewhere between a pained rasp and an undignified squeak. Of course, there wasn't much to say. He was irreparably scarred and fairly certain his prick would never work properly again.

"Really, it's best if we didn't," Remus continued, taking the hallway on the right. James did his level best to keep up, shuffling after him in a manner that was both dutiful and reminiscent of an Inferius. "We did nothing for her mood, earlier, and she's still naffed off about that business with the Chocolate Frogs."

"Frogs?" James asked. He was in dire need of a Memory Charm. Unless he'd already spontaneously Obliviated himself; Remus was rabbiting on about frogs like that was supposed to mean something, and James didn't have the foggiest idea why. "What frogs?"

"The Chocolate Frogs Peter loosed on the Potions corridor yesterday," Remus said patiently. He took the next corner, managing to do so without the long and unnecessary deliberation ritual. "You can't have forgotten already. I certainly haven't. I could've done without looking like I'd been wallowing about with a pack of Nogtails."

"Oh. Right."

"I'm sure she blames you," Remus went on. They were dangerously close to the Great Hall, and Remus seemed to be quickening his pace accordingly. "You or Sirius. Both of you, probably."

James came back to himself, propelled by hunger -- something smelled _fantastic_ \-- and a fair degree of righteous indignation. "Me? I didn't do anything!"

"You can't blame her, really."

"I guess not," James conceded. He had to admit, he'd been a bit taken aback by the whole thing; he wouldn't have figured Peter capable of something that magnificent. Peter usually held to the standards -- knickers, funny smells, embarrassing noises, copious amounts of slime -- and he never did anything if he was within fifty feet of a professor. Now that James thought about it, he was somewhat displeased about being left out of the plan. He was also appalled that he hadn't thought of it first. "Complicated magic isn't really Peter's style."

"That's not what I meant," Remus said sharply. "You can't blame her, because you're usually guilty, and the same goes for Sirius. He's almost always guilty. As for Peter, you underestimate him. He's shrewd enough, in his own way."

"Apparently."

"James," Remus began, in a tone that suggested James was in for a long and jolly boring lecture. "You can't -- shit."

Lurching to one side, Remus grabbed James by the arm and pushed him into a broom cupboard without ceremony. James felt this deserved protest, perhaps in the form of a solid kick to Remus' arse, but he tripped over a stinky bucket of rags before he could manage it. He also fell down, slamming into an assortment of bits and bats crowded against the wall, and then he was too preoccupied with the broken mop handle trying to bore a hole in his kidney. Remus slipped inside a moment later, holding the door open just a crack.

"You realise Sirius was kidding, right?" James asked, rolling over and spitting dust out of his mouth. "About us snogging?"

"Shut up."

"Prat." James glanced at the visible slice of hallway just in time to see Professor Calcutront stride by, flanked by a Ravenclaw Prefect and most of the Arithmancy Club. "Oh. That could've been awkward."

"Quite," Remus muttered. He eased the door open in fractions, then stuck his head out into the hallway and gestured for James to join him. "Let's go."

They rounded another corner, hurrying past a horribly ornate tapestry of Godric Gryffindor and a portrait of Circe that was most put out when they wouldn't stop to chat. At the next intersection they inadvertently split up, James going straight while Remus headed left, but James eventually doubled back in pursuit of Remus, after Remus shouted something rather impolite down his hallway and James spotted Nearly Headless Nick floating around the end of his. Once James caught up, they took another left, and Circe's affronted shrieks faded away as they skidded to a halt at the foot of Gryffindor Tower.

"I was thinking here," Remus said, pointing to the bottom of the stairs. "It'll catch everyone going up."

This close to dinner, the hallway was fairly crawling with students, and much like the dilemma of James' sodding pink skirt, clearing the area was a combined effort. Remus scared off a thicket of younger kids by pulling out his Prefect Face, and a few well-placed Dungbombs from James did for those who'd failed to be cowed by apparent constipation. Once that was sorted, and a mouthy goblin statuette was bribed with the promise of a visit to the half-dressed nymphs in the Transfiguration corridor, the spells went off like a dream. James found the warm and buttery glow he'd misplaced somewhere near Hufflepuff, and this pleased him so much that he allowed Remus a full minute of self-appreciation before starting him up the staircase with a shove.

"Prongs," Remus panted, from half a flight below. "Wait!"

James ignored this flawlessly and focused his attention on the Fat Lady. "Bowtruckle."

"Wrong," she bellowed, in the manner of a labouring kelpie.

"What?"

"Changed," Remus wheezed, as he clamoured onto the landing. "She... this morning... changed."

"They're meant to be good for a week!"

"Yes, well," Remus said, slumping into the banister. "She started this nonsense this afternoon. It seems her friend Violet has it out for Peter." Taking a deep breath, he favoured the Fat Lady with a sour frown. "I don't know what happened, but she's as riled at Peter as the house-elves are at Sirius."

"Did he ever tell you what he did?" James asked. "Sirius, I mean. With the house-elves."

"I never asked, and I don't intend to." Remus turned to the Fat Lady and spread his hands. "Glumbumble?"

The Fat Lady smirked. James was sorely tempted to jab his wand in her eye.

"Shrivelfig?" Remus offered.

The Fat Lady straightened the collar of her dress.

"Dung beetle?"

"Oh, fine." She sniffed as she swung away from the wall. "Don't get used to it."

James dashed across the common room and took the stairs at a full run. He was dizzy and rather short of breath by the time he reached his dormitory, but he pressed on -- quite heroically, in his opinion -- and used the last of his strength to bang through the door. His hands _itched_. He lunged for his bed, ripping back the blanket just as Remus stumbled into the room.

"Well?"

"Brilliant!" James shouted, as his blanket fell to the floor. "We are fucking brilliant!"

  


 

"Black."

Regulus paused with his hand poised over his bishop. A shadow fell across the chessboard, and Hyacinth Selwyn stopped lecturing her pieces on the inherent weakness in giving quarter to one's enemies long enough to offer Regulus a falsely sympathetic smile.

"Yes?" Regulus asked, mimicking Avery's toneless drone.

Avery frowned sharply. "Your brother."

The common room went suddenly and suspiciously quiet.

"Yes?" Regulus repeated, a bit expectantly. He rather wasn't in the mood. Conversations about Sirius were always tiresome, and it didn't help that Avery sometimes had difficulty speaking is complete sentences. Without looking away from Avery's face, Regulus used his bishop to rout one of Hyacinth's pawns. "What about him?"

"He's been seen."

Regulus swallowed a frustrated sigh. "You do realise we all live in the same castle, right?" In the far corner, Connors and Parkinson were pretending to commune over third-year Charms, but Regulus doubted they were learning much of anything. Parkinson's quill hadn't moved since Avery arrived, and Connors was watching them openly. "I often have the misfortune of seeing him several times a day."

One particularly bleak Thursday last month, he'd run into Sirius on twenty-two separate occasions. That had been a strange day all around, though, what with the Augureys roosting outside Ancient Runes and the enraged Devil's Snare holding the Astronomy Tower hostage.

"He's hanging around the Potions corridor," Avery said, and his forehead wrinkled like he was trying and failing to latch onto a full thought. Regulus wasn't going to hold his breath. "He shouldn't be down there this late."

"Don't let it worry you," Regulus advised lightly. Hyacinth ducked her head, her mouth twitching as it disappeared behind her hand. "He'll find his way home when he gets hungry."

Nott settled into a dark green armchair that boasted a clear view of Avery's arse. He didn't seem interested in taking advantage of this fact; he was too busy reading a Quidditch magazine, apparently upside-down.

"Black."

"Avery."

Avery tilted his head like a Crup trying to remember where it had buried its favourite bone, and the expression he took on could've almost been considered pensive. Regulus fancied he smelled smoke.

"Potions," Avery said finally. His tone was positively dire.

"I didn't have it today, thank Merlin," Regulus noted, as Wilkes came plodding up the dormitory stairs. He paused when he reached the landing, taking extreme interest in a potted fern and a pair of elaborate pewter candlesticks, and Regulus wondered who he thought he was fooling. "Some nancy Hufflepuff exploded a cauldron, and Slughorn got scurvy-grass in his eyes."

"Nettles," Hyacinth corrected sweetly. "I think it was nettles."

Regulus darted a considering glance at Hyacinth and tried to figure out what she was playing at. As a Prefect related to a prominent Ministry official, she had little to gain by helping Regulus, and quite a bit to lose from baiting someone like Avery. He was an idiot, but his two closest friends were the Head Boy (Rosier) and the Slytherin Quidditch captain (Mulciber).

"Potions is awfully close to Slytherin," Avery pointed out needlessly.

"It is, rather."

Hyacinth disguised a snort behind a cough, and Regulus decided it was best not to read anything into her behaviour. She was likely just enjoying the show.

"He shouldn't be down there."

Regulus was fairly certain they'd already established this. "He's probably just lost. He gets confused easily."

"It's all those Bludgers he's taken to the head," Hyacinth noted, favouring Regulus with a look that was both appraising and amused.

Regulus smiled at her, just a slight curve to the corners of his mouth. He didn't much care for blondes, but he had to admit she was quite pretty. At the very least, she was more attractive than the French troglodyte his mother expected him to marry when he came of age. Sophie Devereaux came from a wealthy family with an unbroken pureblood line that stretched back to the Roman conquest of Gaul, and as far as his mother was concerned, that far outweighed his loud and numerous objections to her face.

"Could be up to something," Avery ventured.

"Well, yes. I suppose he could be," Regulus said shortly. "And, let me guess -- this is the part where you want me to go do something about it."

Avery grunted. "Your brother."

Parkinson was chewing his quill and Connors was gnawing his thumbnail and neither were bothering to hide the fact that they were positively staring. Wilkes had progressed to lingering over a portrait of Slytherin's second wife, his head cocked at an angle he likely thought was more conducive to eavesdropping, and Nott had all but disappeared behind his magazine, and never mind that he still had it the wrong way around.

"I'm busy just now." Regulus frowned at the forgotten chessboard; Hyacinth had used his distraction to do something clever with one of her knights, and now his king was in jeopardy. It shook its tiny fist at Regulus, shrieking worrying imprecations in its ridiculously high-pitched voice, and Regulus sighed. "I'm not finished letting Hyacinth beat me."

Hyacinth sniffed loudly. "You were doomed five moves ago, Black."

Avery grunted again and pulled a face that suggested he'd point his wand at Regulus as soon as he sorted out which end went up, but Regulus wasn't going to hold his breath there, either.

"He's probably buggered off already," Regulus said.

"Black."

"All right, all right," Regulus muttered, because Avery was quickly turning an alarming shade of purple. He rather looked like he planned to explode at any moment, and Regulus didn't want to clean up the mess. He was wearing new robes, and blood stained something terrible. He also didn't want to spend the rest of the evening exchanging hexes from behind an overturned couch, and that's precisely what would happen if Avery got truly naffed off and found his wits long enough to fetch Mulciber and Rosier. "I'll go see what he's on about."

The stone door that guarded Slytherin opened with a hurried and disgruntled scrape, nearly barrelling out of the way in its rush to let Regulus by. He heard whispers behind him -- Hyacinth's soft flutters, Avery's dimwitted monotone, Nott's fussy and meticulous tones -- but he shrugged it off as he exited the common room. A bust of Demeter snickered at him, evidently amused by the way he paused to straighten his hair and robes, and he calmly Transfigured it into a fruit bowl. Considering it a vast improvement, he helped himself to a satsuma and headed toward the left, taking what he hoped was the quickest route to Potions.

He rounded the corner at the end of the hallway and slammed right into Severus.

"Was it something I said?" Severus asked quietly, as he picked himself up. He took care to leave the satsuma where it had rolled under a tapestry.

"Where have you been?" Regulus demanded. He smoothed a crinkle in Severus' collar and brushed a bit of lint from Severus' sleeve, but quickly decided his hair would need nothing short of a miracle. It was just as lank as usual, but it was also disordered in a way that said birds had been nesting in it at some point. "You look a fright."

"It's a chronic condition, or so Potter tells me," Severus said. The tapestry returned the satsuma with a dusty belch, and Severus ignored it as it rolled into his foot. "It didn't help that some clumsy Quidditch hooligan knocked me arse over head."

Regulus disregarded this with a wave. "I could've used you about ten minutes ago."

"I was in the Library," Severus explained, frowning when Regulus grabbed his arm and began dragging him down the hallway without ceremony. "Where are we going? You said you were tired, earlier."

Regulus was very tired. It had been a fairly exhausting day, between Quidditch practice and the amorous Flobberworm he'd run afoul of during Care of Magical Creatures. Not that Kettleburn had gone out of his way to help him, or anything. He'd also suffered through a double period of Divinations, where Ogleby had treated him to a long and disturbingly detailed list of the horrors scheduled to assault the House of Black once Mars did something or other in the vicinity of something else. His eventual escape from the North Tower had been foiled when Hectate Hettledown had ambushed him at the foot of the stairs, bristling like a freckled and large-breasted bird whose feathers were quite ruffled, and he'd been forced to spend the next hour convincing her that his recent romantic advances had been made honestly, and were not actually part of some convoluted political subterfuge in his brother's general direction.

The girl hadn't been half wrong, but it wasn't like Regulus was just going to admit it.

"You distinctly mentioned taking a nap before dinner," Severus pressed.

"Change of plans. Your boyfriends have sent their goon after me."

"Again? It's only Thursday."

"Apparently, Sirius is loose in the Potions corridor," Regulus continued, herding Severus around a corner. "And apparently, they want me to sort him out."

"Ah." Severus stopped short, causing Regulus to stumble into a broom cupboard door.

Huffing sharply, Regulus steadied himself on the doorknob. "What?"

"Potions," Severus said, with the same monosyllabic single-mindedness that had plagued Avery earlier.

"Yes?" Regulus had the strong urge to beat someone with the handle-end of his wand. Avery came to mind, as did Mulciber and Rosier. Failing that, Severus would do. Or the statue smirking at him from the corner. "What about it?"

"We're here."

"Oh, right. Of course."

The hallway was empty.

"I don't see him," Severus said, poking a tapestry that was billowed out at an odd angle. It fluttered benignly, and Severus coughed as dust clouded around his face. "And everything looks all right."

Everything did, for a certain value of 'all right.' The floors wanted polishing, and the portraits flanking Slughorn's office were still hopelessly gaudy, and it wouldn't have killed a house-elf to come down there with a wet rag and a bottle of Grime-Be-Banished, but as far as Regulus could tell, nothing was naked, burning, curiously smelly, teetering precariously atop a steaming pile of compost, or dripping with nauseating amounts of violently blue slime.

"Well, I suppose that's that, then," Regulus said, turning back toward Slytherin. "A nap is well out, but I'd like to wash up before--"

Footsteps rang out suddenly, sounding less than a corridor away. Regulus glanced at Severus; his wand was out and his eyes were narrowed.

"We should hide," Severus whispered, pointing to an alcove that a suit of armour was only mostly using.

"Yes, all right."

It was a very tight fit, starting with elbows and knees and trodden-on feet and ending with Regulus flattened against the armour, Severus pressed into his back and his mouth full of lobstered metal. The footsteps stopped as abruptly as they started, and the hallway went silent, except for the quiet hitch of Severus' breathing and a distant flurry of shuffling noises that Regulus couldn't account for. He angled his head over the armour's helmet to get a better look, which caused his knee to catch the armour directly in the arse; the armour creaked loudly in complaint and Severus reached around Regulus and rapped it smartly with his wand.

"Can you see anything?" Regulus asked.

"Just your inflated head."

"Merlin's dirty pants," Regulus snapped, as Severus shifted closer and the armour's elbow jabbed him in the belly. "I hope that's your wand in your pocket."

"I hope--"

The footsteps resumed and Regulus wiggled around a little more, trying to find a position that would give him a decent view of the hallway. He got his head around the armour's shoulder just in time to see his brother sauntering up the hallway, his arm slung over Pettigrew's shoulder and a rather satisfied grin plastered across his smug, irritating face. Regulus blinked at the scene for a full minute; he wasn't surprised that Sirius was actually down here after all, but he didn't understand how he'd ended up _behind_ them.

"... really think it worked?" Pettigrew asked.

"Of course it worked. We're brilliant," Sirius replied arrogantly. "Bloody brilliant."

"What about that portrait?" Pettigrew frowned slightly. "You don't think she'll tell on us, do you?"

Sirius shook his head. "No. Not if she knows what's good for her."

"Nosy old hag."

"She's a distant relative."

"Oh. Sorry, then."

"I didn't say she wasn't a hag."

Pettigrew snickered loudly, squeaking in a way that was incredibly rodent-like, and Regulus caught himself grinding his teeth. This morning, he'd once again needed to remove a family of mice from his favourite pair of shoes. Regulus pulled his wand slowly, sliding along the line of the armour's visor, but Severus lurched closer without warning, moving too quickly and widely in such a constricted space. Regulus caught his chin on the armour's spaulder and the armour gave them up with a deafening shriek.

"Oh," Pettigrew said, as they tumbled out of the alcove. He stopped snickering and took a step closer to Sirius, but his mouth developed a suspicious twitch.

"Fancy meeting you here," Sirius said slowly. He watched calmly as Regulus found his feet; Severus' wand was already trained on his forehead. "Interesting place for a snog, but I guess you two have to take what you can get."

Severus' face twisted, his lips forming a thin, hard line. " _Furnunculus_!"

Sirius ducked flawlessly. Pettigrew's face erupted with boils -- bloody huge boils, which were a solid marker of Severus' anger -- but Regulus didn't feel vindicated in the slightest. Sirius had learned to counter the more garden-variety curses on before his eighth birthday; he'd have Pettigrew sorted without blinking an eye.

" _Tarantallegra!_ " Sirius darted smoothly to the side and Pettigrew managed to avoid it by dint of falling over. Regulus spat as a suit of armour opposite took up the tango. "Balls!"

" _Rictusempra_!" Pettigrew offered, hitting Severus despite the fact that he was still sprawled on the floor.

Severus aimed at Sirius, his left side twitching as he sputtered and gasped. " _Expulso_!"

" _Densaug--_ "

" _Protego_!"

" _Sectumsempra_!"

Sirius missed Severus by a mile, likely because he'd fired over his shoulder while running down the hallway with Pettigrew in tow, but it hit the tapestry behind Regulus' head, slicing it neatly in half, and Severus snarled in a way that suggested he was fit to castrate Sirius with his bare hands. He sent a terrifyingly forceful _Petrificus Totalus_ down the hall, but Sirius and Pettigrew had already disappeared, and Severus' aim was sloppy from the Tickling Charm buggering his arm. It bounced off the wall and slammed into a statue, which toppled over and rolled quietly into the shadows.

"We need to go," Regulus said, countering the _Rictusempra_ as he shoved Severus toward Slytherin.

They took the Potions corridor at a dead run, skidding as they rounded the corner, carrying on until the onset of dinner sent small knots of students in their direction. They slowed considerably after a pair of lower form girls fixed them with matching curious looks, and Regulus pasted on the coldest, haughtiest face he could muster with his sides aching and his hands shaking and his chest tightening from a lack of air.

Severus stopped at the mouth of the hallway that fed the Slytherin common room and frowned.

"What?" Regulus asked wearily.

"Something is wrong here," Severus replied, waving at the walls. "Something... I don't know. Something is not right."

Regulus sighed. "You're paranoid."

"Of course I'm paranoid," Severus admitted quietly. "That doesn't mean those four aren't actually out to get me."

 

  


 

Remus headed for the common room slowly, weighted by the leaden feet and sinking stomach that often accompanied a general sense of trepidation. He'd been down twice this morning already, once to stop himself from beating Sirius bloody -- and Sirius had been begging for it, really; Remus had been awake for a good fifteen minutes, there'd been no call for Sirius to fart on his face _again_ \-- and then about twenty minutes later, when it had rather sounded like Evans meant to spontaneously combust. Both times, the frosty reception he'd received from a good half of his house mates had sent him right back up the stairs.

The other half had called it a good show, but the point remained. Remus had a very bad feeling about this.

Not that Remus minded a little mischief, because he didn't. Granted, he didn't revel in wanton chaos the way James and Sirius did -- an impossible feat; he'd have to Banish his sense of decency, at the very least, and possibly embrace his inner nudist -- but he quite enjoyed a bit of fun now and then, as long as no one got hurt, nothing slimy took up residence in his shoes, and any resulting fistfights happened somewhere other than in his bed, on top of his trunk, or three feet to the left while he was trying to have a shower.

Their first _proper_ prank had taken place in their fourth month of school. Remus considered it proper because it had been a collective effort and marginally successful. It had also been a premeditated attack, rather than a random act brought on by boredom, circumstance, and Sirius' chronic inability to behave normally. On that landmark occasion, Remus had learned three rather important things: Sirius was madder than a cupboard full of Jarveys, James' sense of adventure was really just a death wish in a nice set of robes, and no good could possibly come from messing with two bags of itching powder, a breeding pair of Bowtruckles, and an impossibly large brassiere in the same afternoon. They'd been lessons, in a way, and the very next day Remus had learned two more.

"Useless wassocks," snarled Elgar Chesterton, a seventh-year approximately the size and shape of Greenhouse Three. He glared sourly at Remus as he slouched toward the portrait hole, and Remus remembered that the previous term, he'd won the All Hands, No Heart award for most unprovoked fouls in a single Quidditch season.

Thing the first: on the morning after a prank, Remus needed to approach any and all common areas with his wand at the ready.

"We are the _kings_!" Sirius proclaimed the exact moment Chesterton ceased darkening their doorstep. The wrinkled sheet in which he was wrapped looked very much like it wanted to be a toga when it grew up.

Thing the second: on the morning after a prank, there was no living with James and Sirius.

Remus swallowed a satisfied smile. All nonsense aside, it _had_ been a good show. It took a fair measure of talent to wreak havoc school-wide in the space of a single evening and, unless Remus missed his guess, that was precisely what they'd done. Judging by the riot Evans had nearly managed to incite, their spell had buggered every permanently occupied bed in Gryffindor -- Pyke's bed had been spared, but spattergroit was the gift that kept on giving -- and the evidence showed that the beds in Hufflepuff had suffered a similar fate. A peace delegation had knocked on the Fat Lady shortly after six, asking to parley with James and Sirius under a flag of truce.

The other four targets remained to be seen, but Remus wasn't worried. Sirius and Peter had likely done their bit correctly; Remus had taught Sirius the Anti-Theft Jinx himself, and Peter was a better wizard than people wanted to realise. Chances were, the four of them had hexed every bed the school had to offer. That definitely qualified as a good show, and really, it was pretty funny.

Various Slytherins would probably disagree, but that was only to be expected. They could be horribly touchy -- Remus often suspected new Slytherins had their sense of humour surgically removed within an hour of their Sorting -- which meant they tended to react badly to things like scaly skin, sparkly uniform parts, and fermented foodstuffs in their underclothes.

Today was double Potions; Remus made a mental note to brush up on his Shield Charms.

"We'd best head out," Peter said, straightening his tie in front of a wall hanging he'd mostly Transfigured into a mirror. "I think it's kippers. I don't want to be late if it's kippers."

"Right," Remus replied. He frowned slightly. His Arithmancy essay was a good inch over the fifteen Professor Calcutront had assigned, but the splotches of pumpkin juice peppering the conclusion were somewhat unsightly. "Where are the other two?"

"Present!" Sirius crowed, thundering down the stairs. James was right on his heels, and they both fairly reeked of essence of Dittany.

James' eye was a bit of a sticking point, but James had gamely admitted that it had been his own fault, and having witnessed the whole messy affair, Remus could only agree. It might've been avoided, had James been paying the slightest bit of attention. He ducked when he clearly should've weaved, and since he'd once declared Evans' right hook a thing of beauty, Remus was of the firm opinion that he should've seen it coming. Of course, Remus also believed that when Evans whipped herself into an absolute tempest, the best course of action was not sweating profusely and staring somewhat lecherously at her mouth.

"Well, it looks better," Remus offered.

James' smiled crookedly. "It still hurts something fierce, but the swelling's gone down a bit."

"I've told you to leave that bird alone, mate," Sirius commented, stuffing his schoolwork inside his rucksack without regard to what it would look like when he wanted it back. His tie was so loose the knot was only pretending. "She's obviously daft."

"You're daft," James countered. He pulled Peter away from the mirror -- which was quickly regaining its original size, shape, and penchant for Gryffindor patriotism -- and herded him toward the portrait hole. "She obviously fancies me."

Sirius snorted, a noise that was both undignified and loud enough to shatter the windows. "Five Sickles says she tries to kill you in your sleep before Easter hols."

"You're on!" James bellowed from the hallway, and Remus sighed. At the next password change, the Fat Lady would likely treat him to a lecture on James and Sirius' lesser points, and she thought there were many. "She obviously fancies me. Obviously."

"He's as barmy as they come," Sirius declared, to an audience of Remus, a wall hanging that now favoured a wall hanging, and an overturned chair -- collateral damage incurred during Evans' attempted lynching of James. Of the three, Remus was paying the least amount of attention. "When he wakes up dead, he'll have no one to blame but himself."

"Right."

"Moony, come on," Sirius pressed, in a tone that suggested he'd actually been on time for anything in his life. "It's nearly seven."

"Sorry. I didn't realise we were in a hurry," Remus grumbled. As he understood things, Sirius had been _born_ late. "It's not like you, getting your knickers in a twist over kippers."

"Kippers, again? Balls." Sirius wrinkled his nose, then shrugged. "Nothing for it. I've got Divs first, and I've got to eat before. I never can eat after," he explained, taking the stairs two at a time. "Ogleby is always on about how I'm meant to be dismembered at the next Quidditch match."

"So, this weekend, then?" Remus asked sweetly.

Sirius huffed. "Sod you."

"Don't worry. I'll plan you a nice funeral," Remus continued. "Soppy music, and those little canapés you like so much. I can probably get a couple of birds to cry if I pay them enough."

"I've not fallen from my broom yet," Sirius said loftily. "Besides, Ogleby is totally cracked. She's as bad as Evans, and Evans is off her nut." He pulled the face he always favoured when the subject of Evans came up, which rather made him look like he'd just found week-old gillyweed in his pockets. "Those beds were bloody funny... she had no business getting so shirty, and I don't know why she went and blamed me and James right off."

"You're usually guilty."

Sirius waved this off as irrelevant. "What about you? You're plenty guilty, and I've never seen her take to you with a potted sneezewort."

"Only because she doesn't suspect," Remus mumbled. It was only a matter of time, really. Evans was a bright girl; she'd eventually see through his unwitting accomplice routine, the same way McGonagall had. "And it's your own fault if she doesn't. You and James are always going on about what a complete stick I am. You can't blame me if she actually believes it."

"I've never called you a stick," Sirius said, a bit too quickly. Remus arched an eyebrow, which prompted Sirius to make a vague attempt at looking sheepish, but it didn't go over so well. Sirius' sheepish wasn't a patch on James'. "Not a complete stick, anyway," Sirius went on, tugging Remus' sleeve. "Just, you worry about McGonagall too much."

"Well, one of us has to," Remus insisted. "Peter's properly terrified of her, but you and James can't seem to be bothered."

Sirius abandoned him when they reached the bottom of the stairs, throwing him over for a passing Hufflepuff with platinum curls and curves that could only be described as architectural. Remus tried to remember her name as he watched Sirius' hand navigate the swell of her hip, but he couldn't place it. Not that it mattered, of course. Sirius probably didn't remember her name, either. He was worse than James, and James was quickly becoming a Ravenclaw legend, in spite of his allegedly undying love for Evans.

Remus blanched at that unpleasant reminder; Evans had apparently taken her snit to breakfast, but he could do without running into her unaware. She really was a lovely girl, but she could go on. At length. She almost never ran out of opinions, particularly when it came to James, and it wasn't like Remus didn't know his friends were somewhat deficient. He paused and glanced about, hoping to spot Evans before she spotted him, but he found James and Peter, instead. He immediately wished he hadn't; they were just up ahead, loitering in front of a suit of armour that was mostly minding its own business, and James had a rather suspicious look on his face.

"James," Remus warned.

"Moony!" James replied merrily. He aimed his wand with a smile. " _Canto_!"

There was a strange and foreboding metallic-tinged silence. The suit of armour convulsed, possessed with a nervous twitch that rippled up from its greaves to its breastplate, then quivered across its lobstered arms. Its visor opened with a pained and rusty shriek, and to Remus' horror, it started to sing.

 _The Kneazle jockeys sing this song, doo-dah, doo-dah!_  
The Kneazle race-track's five miles long, oh the doo-dah day!  
I went down there with my Galleons changed in, doo-dah, doo-dah!  
I came back home with my pockets full of tin, oh the doo-dah day!

"Merlin's spotty arse," Remus snapped. His mother blamed the lycanthropy for all the grey in his hair, but his mother had never met James Potter. "You're bloody unbelievable."

"I try." James grinned brightly, then succumbed to a fit of incredibly juvenile snickers. Peter was positively gasping; his face was so red Remus almost expected him to explode. "Where'd Sirius get to? I thought you had him."

"Scorned for a Hufflepuff," Remus explained, covering his ears. At least the Squid hadn't been tone deaf. "Clearly, I should wear tighter jumpers."

"Clearly," James agreed, advancing on his next victim. " _Canto_!"

 _Going to run all night!_  
Going to run all day!  
I bet my money on a bandy-legged tom,  
Somebody bet on the spay!

A second suit of armour joined the first, shaking as its dull voice clanged down the hallway, and they both attempted to dance, by dint of flailing their plated limbs in jerky, stilted motions that failed to capture the song's miserable excuse for a beat. James smiled like a total madman, and a third quickly joined the fray, not that it was any better at it. They stumbled toward each other, formed a circle and, despite the fact that they couldn't have found which verse they were on with the assistance of a map, began swaying together -- with less regard to rhythm than before -- in the manner of a Muggle church choir.

James flicked his wand. The suit in the centre gave a violent jolt, slung its arms across its compatriots' spaulders, and launched into a rousing and off-key encore of the chorus, with background vocals by a pair of goblin statuettes and a portrait of Pontus the Potbellied on percussion. A crowd had gathered, and Peter was nearly in fits. The flanking suits dropped to their squeaky knees, gauntlets fanned at their leader, who began gyrating its hips in a way even Sirius would've considered untoward. A horrible creak pierced the hallway, and Remus quickly added indecent exposure to James' growing list of crimes as the soloist's codpiece broke away and clattered loudly to the floor.

Predictably, the crowd went wild. Those not in danger of wetting themselves offered tribute in the form of wolf-whistles and applause, and James replied with a deep bow and a winning smile. Remus caught sight of Evans, lurking near the edge of the throng with a face that could've curdled fresh cream, but Remus immediately averted his eyes. He could already hear what McGonagall would have to say -- he did a fair impression of her, particularly inside his own head -- and a confrontation with Evans would only put him off his meals. Remus glanced at Peter, mainly because Peter was yanking on his sleeve with the dogged persistence of a rabid lethifold, and discovered that Peter quite looked like he'd been slapped in the face.

"Oh, no," Peter whispered, his eyes impossibly wide. "We're in it now."

Remus turned, and his stomach -- the sour, fickle thing -- gave up the ghost in a completely spectacular fashion. Rather than sink, it dropped out of his body entirely. He decided that when looking for it later, the best place to start would be the Slytherin dungeons. Or the bottom of the lake.

"Gentlemen," Dumbledore said brightly. His robes were an eye-watering shade of blue. "I had hoped I would run into you, and as luck would have it, here you are."

James tucked his wand behind his back. "We didn't do it!"

"Of course not." Dumbledore peered at James over the rims of his spectacles and politely ignored the dented rondel that rolled into James' foot. "But, as I am not your Head of House, I dare say it is not my opinion that matters."

 

  


 

Well, the prank had gone off all right.

Sirius supposed that was something, but considering that the day now seemed to be headed straight down the pipes, he also supposed he should've stayed in bed.

He almost had. When James had kicked him to the floor at arse o'clock in the morning -- for snoring, of all things, the complete fucking girl -- his second instinct had been to crawl in with one of the others and go right back to sleep. His first had been to hex James into next week, and he'd mostly succeeded at that. His aim wasn't the best when his eyes were still closed and his brain was still slightly fogged, but James would be afraid of his school tie until Tuesday at the very least, and a four poster convulsing with a Jelly-Legs Jinx was never not funny. Once he'd got James sorted, he'd stumbled toward Remus' bed with the singular idea of sleeping through breakfast, and possibly well into Divination, but Remus had looked far too peaceful and content, and Sirius had never seen the point of suffering alone. If he was up, the Remus bloody well ought to be up, as well. Besides, Sirius rarely passed on an opportunity to sit on Remus' head.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and that.

If Sirius had stayed in bed, he wouldn't have stubbed his toe on the dustbin in the loo. If he hadn't done that, he wouldn't have shouted, and that meant he wouldn't have seen Peter naked for the fifth time in three days, because Peter -- under the mistaken impression that someone had been murdering a landed merperson in the toilet -- wouldn't have dashed out of the shower without bothering to grab a towel. Sirius wouldn't have run down to the common room in horror, where he'd been forced to listen to Evans shriek at James for a better part of an hour. He also wouldn't have seen his gormless, mincing knob of a brother walking to breakfast with Hectate Hettledown -- who was still avoiding him, but given the way she'd been curled around Regulus, he no longer had to guess at why -- and he wouldn't have been ripped away from Violet Bagshot just as things had started to get interesting.

Violet bloody Bagshot.

Sirius mostly liked birds however they came, but with those legs and hips and breasts, Violet Bagshot was nothing short of brilliant. Unfortunately, she was also incredibly prudish; Sirius had been negotiating the terms of her surrender for weeks. After judicious application of compliments, poetry copied from a book he'd nicked from Evans, and a box of sweets he'd find a way to deny purchasing while under Veritaserum, Sirius had finally -- _finally_ \-- convinced her to accompany him to his favourite supply cupboard.

Only for the door to bang open before his hand had properly been up her jumper, and for Dumbledore to greet him with an _I am afraid you will need to come with me_ and a disturbingly twinkly _bit early for that sort of thing, anyway_.

It had been early, but Sirius didn't see anything wrong with starting the day with a good, solid grope. Besides, Remus had threatened him with kippers.

"Mister Black!"

Sirius blinked. In spite of his thoughts -- which had returned to the supply cupboard, where he had Violet's jumper on the floor, her freckled skin under his mouth and, most importantly, a door that was hexed to maim on contact -- he gradually became aware of pursed lips, a tightly set jaw, and a familiar pair of square-rimmed spectacles. He blinked again and found himself on the business end of what was quite possibly the frostiest glare he'd ever seen.

"Professor?" Sirius offered, in a voice he hoped would suggest he'd been there the whole time.

"I suspect I lack your full and undivided attention," McGonagall accused crisply. That was likely the understatement of the term, but Sirius figured it would be best if he didn't mention it. He smiled, but McGonagall simply adjusted her glare into something that made him wish for an overcoat "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

 _Not a one,_ he thought happily. He smiled again, and Remus promptly kicked him in the foot.

"Irresponsible." That was fairly safe; she normally said it at least once. "Careless." Another standard. "Thoughtless." Her glare was unmoved; the Mandrakes in Greenhouse Four would have frostbite within the hour. "Reckless." James shifted in his chair, and Peter seemed extremely interested in the carpet. Remus kicked Sirius again, closer to the ankle, this time. "Wilful."

McGonagall chiselled her mouth into a frown. "It seems you are ahead of me, Mister Black. I had not yet arrived at 'wilful.'"

"Of course you hadn't," Sirius replied smoothly. He let his smile widen, a gesture McGonagall pointedly ignored. She really was the most alarming woman. It was bloody unnatural, the way she patently refused to be swayed by his obvious charms. "I was only trying to help you along."

"I can assure you, I do not require your assistance."

McGonagall's expression changed, a subtle shift in her eyebrows and chin that strongly suggested she was capable of quadruple murder. It also hinted that she had no shortage of people willing to help her hide bodies. Sirius reined in his smile just slightly and favoured his friends with a sidelong glance.

Remus mostly looked nauseated. Peter had opted for horribly apologetic, his face squashed into the type of penitent expression Sirius had never really mastered -- he suspected his bloodlines were to blame; his hatred for his family didn't change the fact that Blacks simply were not bred to say 'I'm sorry' -- but James seemed somewhat twitchy. He was also suspiciously pink around the edges in a way that screamed 'I'm terribly guilty' at an ear-splitting volume, and Sirius wasted a full minute of what McGonagall undoubtedly though was precious time wishing he had the power to explode things with his mind.

Preferably James' head, because James was an utter plank.

This was entirely James' fault. In fact, this was more James' fault than anything else in the long and often awkward history of Things That Were James' Fault. Sirius was all for singing and dancing artefacts, but there was a time and place for that, and as far as Sirius was concerned, the entry hall a few short hours after a prank of epic proportions was definitely not it. Granted, McGonagall would've taken them to task about the beds eventually, but if James hadn't started a ruddy parade, they might've made it to breakfast, and Sirius might've made it up Violet Bagshot's skirt.

If _those_ knickers had been pink, James would've owed him a Galleon.

"Professor," Sirius said, swallowing a grimace. Remus had given up on kicking and was now grinding the heel of his foot into Sirius' toes. Sirius tried for another winning smile, as it was quite clear that any hope of salvaging this situation rested solely with him. "We didn't--"

"Enough," McGonagall snapped, disregarding him with a wave. Sirius wondered if she was somehow related to Evans. "I have no interest in what I am sure would be an entertaining collection of tall tales, pointed fingers, and well-rehearsed excuses."

She narrowed her eyes at each of them in turn -- beginning with Peter, who quietly turned the colour of good wine, and ending with Remus, who shrank down in his chair in a way that said he hoped his robes would do him a favour and strangle him -- and made a terribly Scottish noise in the back of her throat.

"I shall not waste time pondering the question of guilt," she announced, sounding very much like the verdict had been handed down long before they'd even been sent for. "I suppose I should be relieved that no students were physically injured as a result of your activities."

The silence was short and sudden; Sirius pointedly did not think about that unfortunate business with Davy Gudgeon and the Sneakoscope, but the twist to McGonagall's mouth implied she was reliving the whole poxy affair in clear and livid detail.

"However, a large number of students are complaining of emotional distress," she continued. "They feel that by hexing their beds, you violated their personal effects."

"Violated!" James yelped, in a manner Sirius found terribly girly. "Violated?" His hands crept toward his hair, and his fringe was rather thoroughly assaulted, not that it needed it. "We didn't violate anything! It's not like we rolled around in their beds starkers, or--"

McGonagall patted her bun. "That will do, Mister Potter."

Another silence, and Sirius thought -- quite deliberately -- about the time James ran down the North Tower stairs wearing nothing but his glasses and a Gryffindor scarf.

"It is not your opinion that is at issue, but your behaviour. Through the casting of complex and dangerous spells, you caused a serious disturbance and upset many of your fellow students."

Sirius bit down on the inside of his cheek. A spot of preening was in order, but he was fairly certain that now was not the time.

"Detention," McGonagall pronounced, almost cheerfully. "For the rest of this week, and all of the next. You will report to Mister Filch each day, thirty minutes after dinner, and you will perform the tasks he sets out for you quickly and without complaint. Particularly tomorrow, and this coming Tuesday." Her frown lingered on Sirius and James. "We're up against Ravenclaw next week. While I'd rather you didn't miss any practice between now and then, I will not interfere if Mister Filch decides to keep you longer than the hour I've proscribed."

Sirius and James mumbled in agreement. Peter nodded silently, and Remus, who'd mostly succeeded in disappearing inside his robes, merely twitched.

"Now," she went on, consulting a new sheet of parchment. "It is time we discussed the reason why Professor Slughorn was beset upon by a small army of Chocolate Frogs."

Behind McGonagall, a portrait of Jehoshaphat Zonko -- famous for his attempted domestication of the Kneazle, and the time he ended a Centaur rebellion with a plate of spotted dick and a smile, feats which paled in comparison with his true act of greatness: lending his nephew the money required to open a novelty shop -- stopped receiving his Order of Merlin long enough to drop Sirius a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, that's easy," Sirius said, his thoughts straying in the direction of Hectate Hettledown's waist. "My brother did that."

 

  


 

It wasn't that bad, all things considered.

"Here," Remus muttered, shoving a haversack in his general direction.

Peter could've done without the dung, of course, but that went without saying.

He sighed and picked up his spade. "Sorry."

At least Mooncalf dung didn't stink something terrible. It was smelly enough in its own way, but it didn't make his eyes water, and Peter knew better than to complain while he was ahead of things. Mooncalf dung brought dead flowers to mind, or a bowl of trifle left out to sour, but it wasn't nearly as horrid as dragon compost, which was so acrid and foul it made Peter cough, or Hippogriff droppings, which were pungent in a way Peter did not care to identify.

"You ready, then?" Remus asked, shaking another haversack in his face.

Peter also could've done without Remus growling at him, but Peter supposed it was only to be expected.

"Yes, almost," Peter promised, adding a bit more dung to the sack he was still working on. "There."

Remus opened the sack in his hands with more anger than Peter felt the situation warranted. Of course, Peter wasn't a Prefect; McGonagall had kept Remus for nearly a full hour longer than the others, holding a private meeting from which Remus had returned white-lipped and furious. When asked, Remus usually said that Prefecting was just a shiny badge and a whole lot of bother for nothing, but Peter secretly suspected it also involved McGonagall frowning quite sternly and using words like 'disappointed.' Remus had barely said anything to Sirius all afternoon, and Peter didn't think he was speaking to James at all.

"I wonder what they look like," Peter said, because Remus' stony silence was making him uncomfortable. "Mooncalves, I mean."

Remus' mouth twisted sourly. "I wouldn't know, would I? They only come out on the full moon."

"Oh. Right."

Whatever was eating Remus right now, Peter hoped he got over it by Monday night. His transformations were always worse when he went to meet the moon in a strop; he ran too fast for Peter to keep pace, he often got himself tangled in bushes or trees, and he howled loud enough to bring the castle rattling to the ground. A few months ago, Remus had got himself worked up about an hour after sundown -- something James had said, something Sirius had done, something about a nest of Horkalumps in the wardrobe, Peter really couldn't remember the details -- and during a game of chase that night, Remus had smacked Padfoot so hard Peter had had to change back and drag him to the Shack.

"They're grey or silver," Remus said, subsiding slightly.

"What? Oh, right. The mooncalves."

"Yes, and about this tall." Remus released one side of the haversack to wave his hand near his hip. The clod of dung Peter was in the process of shovelling fell to the ground, and Remus wrinkled his nose as it plopped next to his shoe. "Very flat feet."

Peter frowned. "I thought you'd never seen one."

"I haven't, but we had a lesson on them last year," Remus said. "I missed the practical bit, of course, but I took notes on Kettleburn's lecture."

"I guess." Peter shrugged and tossed another lump of dung in the sack. "I never paid much attention in that class."

"They've got big eyes," Remus continued, reaching for a new sack. "Big and round, on the tops of their heads."

Peter hefted his spade, jabbing it at Remus like a spear. "No thanks. I don't like things with big eyes."

He set a full sack aside and glanced at James and Sirius while he waited for Remus to ready another. They were meant to be sealing the finished sacks, sewing them closed with a large Muggle needle and thread Charmed to repel insects and vermin, but they mostly seemed to be whispering excitedly while trying to sneak handfuls of dung inside each other's clothes.

"James has big eyes," Remus noted.

"No, his eyes are all right," Peter said thoughtfully. "It's the glasses that make them look buggy, and that."

Remus snorted with all the delicacy of an enraged mountain troll, dropping his sack as his hands twitched to cover his mouth.

"Hey," James shouted, a good deal louder than Peter thought was prudent -- Sprout had already been in twice, asking if they were working or cavorting -- and waved his Muggle needle in the air. "What are you lot up to, over there?"

"We're planning your messy and untimely demise," Remus replied dramatically.

This apparently called for a handful of dung to be tossed in Remus' direction, but Remus wholly ignored it. Peter suspected this had less to do with Remus being the better person and more to do with the fact that it had missed Remus by a good four feet.

"Is McGonagall really angry?" Peter asked quietly, once James and Sirius had returned to their alleged work. "Really?"

"Of course she is." Remus paused then, tilting his head, and came very close to smiling. "I mean... well -- oh, never mind."

"What?"

"All right, but don't tell those two," Remus insisted, nodding at James and Sirius. "She's terribly angry, but I think she's also a little proud."

Peter blinked slowly and waited for Remus to laugh, because he had to be joking. He just had to be. Peter had never seen McGonagall so furious; he'd almost expected her to flay them alive, or beat them with her bare hands. Or let Filch dust off the manacles he was always on about.

"After you lot left... she yelled some more, and that, but then she made me go over everything in detail," Remus continued quietly. "Every spell, how we cast it and where, all of it. She said the Anti-Theft Jinx was N.E.W.T level, at least."

"I don't believe it," Peter argued. "Maybe she really is mad for Sirius' arse."

Remus snorted again, a bit softer this time. "Don't let Sirius hear you say that. His head is already so big I don't know how he holds it up."

"My ears are burning," Sirius said.

"That's just the fleas."

Another clod of dung sailed in their direction, but Peter barely noticed it. He was too preoccupied with the freckled, apple-cheeked face peering at him from the doorway.

"Peter?" Myrna Bones asked quietly.

A strange and rather awkward silence curled through the Greenhouse, during which Peter stared at Myrna, Remus stared at Peter, and Myrna stared at James and Sirius. Out of everyone, James and Sirius were probably getting the worst of it, since Myrna's expression politely suggested that dung beetles were falling out of their ears, but Peter barely noticed that, either. James and Sirius ignored it as well; they leaned close and began whispering in a manner that could only be considered lascivious, and Peter concentrated on keeping all the blood in his body from rushing to his face until Remus interrupted him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Um, Peter?"

"We had a date tonight, but I kind of forgot, what with -- " Peter flapped his hand expansively " -- well, you know. Everything. McGonagall and detention, and that."

Remus sighed and gave Peter a nudge. "Go on, then."

"What?" Peter asked shrilly.

"Go on, I said. We'll probably be here when you get back."

"What?" James shrieked, just as Sirius shouted, "No fucking way!"

"It's in the treaty," Remus said primly. "You can check when we get back, if you like."

"Which treaty?" Sirius demanded.

"The Secrecy of Goods and Services Act," Remus explained, adopting the tone he saved for jolly boring lectures and pointless attempts at getting James and Sirius to do their homework. "Whereby, each and every Marauder has the unalienable right to make private mischief, with any girl of his choosing, provided the aforementioned girl is not a member of Slytherin House, in which case the matter will be decided by popular vote. Under--"

"Moony."

"--the law, private mischief may take place whenever the opportunity arises, even in direct conflict with previously-laid plans, inasmuch as those previously-laid plans do not directly relate to the creation of public mischiefs," Remus continued smoothly. "No Marauder may stop another Marauder from engaging in private mischief, under any circumstances, as long as said private mischief meets the criteria as noted above."

The Greenhouse was silent.

"I could go on," Remus threatened. "The next bit is a section on Sirius' nocturnal habits that Miss Bones probably doesn't want to hear."

James opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap, then blinked. "What?"

"Miss Bones is not a Slytherin and we're not pranking," Remus said slowly, ticking each off on his fingers. "Under the treaty, Peter is free to go."

"Really?"

"Really."

Peter frowned down at his robes; he hoped Myrna knew a good Cleansing Charm or two.

"You're barmy," he told Remus as he headed for the door.

"Well, I've earned it," Remus agreed quietly. "I've lived in the Janus Thickey Ward for the last five years."

 

  


 

James skidded to a halt and glanced around for a decent hiding place. There wasn't much to work with; this particular corridor suffered from a sorry lack of anything remotely useful in terms of cover -- no pillars or flowing tapestries, not one sodding broom cupboard, and the Gobstones Club was hogging the only classroom on offer -- but James wasn't in a position to be picky. If he went back the way he came he'd run directly into Filch, and the staircase at the other end of the hall would take him right back to the scene of the crime. Voices rang out in the distance, peppered by the sort of disgruntled and fairly baleful yowls that made James' skin crawl, and James wedged himself into a niche created by a statue of Ethelred the Egregious and a sudden jut in the wall.

He hated that blasted cat. He hated her with a seething, churning flash of heat in his gut that Remus would insist was simply indigestion, and come that fateful day in the future, when James finally snapped and turned that furry little shit into the winter hat she so desperately deserved to be, the entire student body would weep with gratitude and joy, and James would go down in history as a hero and a slayer of shrill, foul beasts.

Another yowl ripped through the hallway, piercing James' eardrums like a sharpened Probity-Probe, and James forced his breathing into something he hoped approached stealthy and silent. It rather sounded like the cat was still one floor below him, but James had learned the hard way never to be fooled by something as fiddly as acoustics. Not in this castle, anyway. Things at Hogwarts were never how they seemed, and it didn't help that Mrs Norris had probably been a ventriloquist in a previous life.

The voices grew louder, and James flattened himself against the wall, sinking deeper into the shadows cast by Ethelred's enormous shoulder. Professor Sprout waddled by a few moments later, carrying a potted Flitterbloom at arm's length and prattling on to a boy who looked as bored to tears as a Hufflepuff could manage. They were just so nice, Hufflepuffs were. James almost felt bad when they wandered into an area he'd just made dangerous or smelly, or when they inadvertently came down with spots or boils, because Sirius and his berk brother were duelling in the middle of a bloody hallway and they'd somehow blundered into the crossfire.

Unless that Hufflepuff was Wilfred Bones, because Bones was a puffed-up swot with more hair than wit, and the rumours of his Quidditch talent were greatly exaggerated. James maintained that he had to tie himself to his broom just to keep from falling off, because he flew with all the agility and grace of a drunken turkey with two broken wings. Infuriatingly, Bones firmly believed his own press; he was constantly giving out about the match Hufflepuff won against Gryffindor like it hadn't happened two bloody years ago. That match had rather been a nightmare, anyway, what with one thing or another -- Sirius taking a Bludger to the head, Chesterton getting hopelessly entangled in the hoops, the freak lightning storm that had somehow resulted in the twig-end of Longbottom's broom bursting into flames -- at least on Gryffindor's end. James was still surprised they'd only lost by ten points.

Last month, when Bones had ended up on the wrong side of a hex Snape had meant for Remus, James had nearly wet himself laughing. Justice had been served, if belatedly and somewhat indirectly, and the unicorn horn protruding from the centre of Bones' forehead had been nothing short of hilarious.

James peeked cautiously around Ethelred's elbow, drawing back as he spotted Flitwick hurrying toward the staircase. He hadn't looked particularly upset, but it was difficult to tell, with Flitwick. Even when he was well and bloody furious, he hiccupped and peeped in a way that made him sound like maddened bird squabbling over breadcrumbs. James slowly counted to one hundred, then started reciting the ingredients for a Draught of Peace, but he lost track of things after the powdered moonstone and gave it up as a bad job. He dared another glance down the hallway and found it empty from end to end. Mrs Norris had finally stopped complaining, but James had also learned the hard way never to be fooled by something as deceptive as that. She was often deadly silent right before she went for the ankles.

"Prongs?"

James stepped out of the niche and walked right into Sirius. Swaying slightly, Sirius grunted. He had his wand in one hand, the Map in the other, and a vaguely harried look on his face.

"All right, there?" James asked.

Sirius peered down the corridor in both directions, a crease appearing on his forehead. "Yeah, I'm all right. Just on my way to collect Peter. Have you seen Moony?"

"No. I thought you had him."

"I did, but I lost him going past the trophy room," Sirius admitted. "Filch's familiar came sniffing around, and we got split up. I didn't see which way he went, and this -- " he gave the Map a stern shake " -- this ruddy thing's got a bag on tonight. I asked it where he was, and it told me to piss off."

"I said this would happen, when you were so keen on teaching it to talk," James pointed out. He reached for the Map, but Sirius snatched it away with a huff. James rolled his eyes. "And stop worrying like a soppy girlfriend. Moony'll turn up. He always does."

"Tosser."

"Wanker. So, how'd you like my Bat-Bogey Hex back there?"

Sirius curled his lip like he'd just been asked to smell someone's manky feet. "It was all right, I guess."

"All right?" James made a mental note to stick a pair of dirty socks under Sirius' nose the next time he fell asleep on the common room couch. The socks would soak up the drool, if nothing else. "Those bats were bloody huge!"

"Mine are bigger," Sirius noted, his mouth twitching. "I've never got them to screech, though. That was a nice touch."

James preened a little. "What about you, then? Did you do your brother?"

"No." Sirius sighed. "I never did find him. Bloody coward ran off as soon as he saw the mongoose."

"Mongoose?" James asked slowly. If James remembered correctly, their long and extremely detailed plan had not included a mongoose. "I thought you were doing a manatee."

"Yes, well. So did I, but what I got was a mongoose," Sirius explained, shrugging. "Probably for the best. Manatees need water, I think, and I'm pants at Atmospheric Charms."

"Right," James said, as a strange, dull noise sounded from somewhere behind Sirius. James angled around to have a look, but it turned out to be a suit of armour getting his spaulders in joint. "What's Peter's story, then?"

"He's on the fourth floor," Sirius replied, consulting the Map. "Been there nearly an hour."

James paused thoughtfully. "Fourth floor... just down from the Library, like?"

"Um." Sirius gave the Map another shake, offering it a few dire and physically impossible suggestions under his breath. "Yeah."

"Oh. He probably just looked at that portrait of Medusa again."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Merlin on a ginger biscuit! How many times do we have to tell him?"

"I don't know. He obviously didn't listen the first twenty-five."

Footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, followed by an incredibly loud bang James was fairly certain he hadn't caused. Explosions hadn't been part of the plan, either, but the plan had clearly gone rogue somewhere after the mongoose.

"Balls," Sirius snapped, running his hand through his hair. "I didn't... that wasn't supposed to happen yet."

A strange odour began wafting up the staircase, the kind of heavy, pungent stench common to dead flowers and large piles of rotting fruit. James wrinkled his nose, and Sirius' eyes widened in a way that made him look slightly deranged.

"Oh, bugger. I thought we'd have more time." Sirius grabbed James' sleeve and tugged. "Come on!"

"What?" James demanded, digging in his heels. "Why?"

"We've got to go. The Fanged Geraniums are coming."

James felt that deserved an explanation -- the plan really had gone rogue, if Fanged Geraniums were now involved -- but Sirius didn't offer, and James wasn't given an opportunity to ask. Sirius spun James around and shoved him into motion, aiming him away from the smelly staircase and toward the other end of the hall. James staggered around a bit, his shoes squeaking on the polished flagstones as his feet tried to get away from him, but Sirius caught him by the arm and hauled him up, dragging James along when James failed to match his pace. Sirius skittered to a stop as they turned a corner, which sent James spinning into a dusty and ill-tempered bust of Agamemnon. James righted himself with a handful of Agamemnon's nose; the bust bellowed a few imprecations that were not at all polite, then frowned, a gesture deepened into something sinister by the spidery crack that followed the line of his mouth.

Sirius yanked James free and steered him toward an intersection halfway down the corridor, slowing as a small bevy of students scurried across their path. Evans was at the head of the pack, her eyes quite red and her hands clamped over her nose and mouth.

"Dramatic little tart," Sirius observed. "I mean, it stinks and everything, but that's a bit much."

"Allergic," James murmured, remembering what had been the first of his many romantic blunders in Evans' general direction. "She's allergic to geraniums."

"Ah... ah... ah-choo!"

 _Of course_.

The Hayfever Jinx might work; he'd need to borrow Peter's copy of Ready Spells for Retribution and Revenge. If he attached it to something common, like the doors to the Great Hall, he could hit half the school at once, and if he planted a few sneezeworts in the area as decoys, there'd be no reason for McGonagall to trace it back to him.

"Padfoot," James said, with a slow smile. "I have an idea."

 

\--

 

 

\--

_mischief managed_


End file.
